Buried With Shadows
by MistroStrings
Summary: I couldn't watch it any longer. Hot tears were dancing across my dirty skin as the silent screams got stuck in my throat. All I could do was shut my eyes and hear his pain. Feel his pain. If I could have said anything to him at that moment, it would have been those words. But, it was too late. Everything was over. Everything was lost. SHERLOCK *4TH* INSTALLMENT! Holmes/OC
1. The Day Before

**Greetings, my fellow detectives! Did you miss me? Well, I missed y'all. And I am pleased to announce the FOURTH INSTALLMENT (Take note if you are reading this as the first one, because it is NOT the first story!) of the Sherlock Holmes stories.**

**Yes, it takes place during the movie. No, I am not quoting it word for word. Yes, I am adding my own scenes. Yes, I am continuing the case from the last story. No, I will not tell you what happens next.**

**PLEASE REVIEW! I would love to see a ton of reviews for the opening of this story. In fact, just to prove that you guys are reading this, I want you to post your favorite Sherlock Holmes quote in your review. I would love to see what everyone has to say. (: **

**MANY THANKS! And now… The show continues! **

**Embrace the shadows,**

**Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

"Hello… I know that it's been quite some time since I've seen you. I wanted to apologize for that, because it wasn't my intention. You know that I would never abandon you without a reasonable purpose. It was because I was busy, but I'm sure you could see that. Every day, I-"

The crunching of leaves behind me caused my voice to freeze in its tracks. I wasn't alone anymore, and I had to keep myself from looking like a fool. It only took a minute for the footsteps to disappear to another area of the cemetery. The flowers in my hands were suffocating in my tight grasp, but I lowered my voice and continued on.

"Every day, I run around London pretending like I know what I'm doing. In all honesty…I don't. I feel the urge to give up my lifestyle for mother and for my own sanity. Yet, I can't. Something besides him pulls me closer to this profession. I think it's because I finally have a sense of purpose. I feel like I'm doing something good for the world in the tiniest way that I can."

My father's grave did not answer. It never did. In a way, it was similar to him. He would always listen to me without uttering a word. It was afterwards that he would offer his guidance, but all I got now was dust in my eyes.

"Well, father. I won't keep you anymore. I'm sure you're… tired." I struggled to find a suitable ending to our conversation. His name quietly stared back at me. "I'll just leave these here for you." I gently placed the daises on his tomb. "Got them at the flower place not too far from here. It's cozy and not too expensive. Besides, I know how much you like daises."

Silence. Eternal silence.

"Well, alright," I laughed as I brushed tears away from my eyes with the back of my hand. It wouldn't be a complete visit without a few moments of blubbering. "Mother is probably worried sick about me. Then again, when isn't she?"

Glancing around to make sure no one was around, I leaned down and pecked the cold stone near my father's birthdate. "I love you, papa." I muttered before quietly headed back the way I came.

The skies were grey as always and the soggy gravel squeaked beneath my boots. My feet hurt from the long walk outside of London, but I didn't mind. I took the walk monthly and was happy to do it. However, I had neglected my visit for quite some time.

The least I could do was have my feet hurt, while _his _body rotted away in the Earth.

Somehow, I was never bothered that my Father was fixated beneath the Earth. My father was a simple man who loved life, and he was at one with the world. He was buried in Mother Nature's loving arms; and there he would remain forever. If I kept looking at it that way, I didn't see it as such a miserable thing.

I burrowed my fingers further into my jacket pockets; my gloves were too torn and tattered to be of any service. One thing on my checklist was finished for the day and now I had to spend the rest of it speaking about bridal gowns, flowers, and petite fours.

A small smile appeared on my face as raindrops kissed my cheeks. It was going to be a good day.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Purple flowers. A lot of them. Lining the pages like an oath of beauty. Perfectly scrolled ink. Cramped hands. Stained fingers. Tired eyes. A sense of pride.

That was what I had been feeling for the past two days. Planning Mary's wedding wasn't easy, but I hadn't expected it to be. I was pre-writing thank you messages from the happy couple and I was more than pleased to do it. I had never noticed what fine penmanship I had before Mary pointed it out.

She had left me alone in her and John's new apartment to finish some things up. I was seated at his desk; surrounded by pocket watches, magnifying glasses, and personal memoirs. I couldn't help but get a tingle in my stomach when I noticed they were about our adventures.

Mary had run off to go speak to him about a few major questions involving food, the priest, etc. The flat was quiet and peaceful for me to work in and for the first time in months I felt totally relaxed.

I won't lie. The case had slipped my mind over the past two days. I hadn't even _seen _Sherlock, but he was constantly on my mind. What would he think of the wedding? Would he hate it? _Of course he would, he doesn't want John to get married._

"Oh, Renadale?" Mary's voice called out after the front door had slammed shut. I glanced up from the desk, waiting for her to appear in the doorway of John's office. "I'm so sorry to have been gone so long, but… there seems to be a slight issue on Baker Street." The moment her face appeared in the doorway, laced with annoyance, I knew it had something to do with Sherlock.

"What's he done now?" I asked without looking up from the invitation.

"It's what he hasn't done," she laughed. "He's gone missing. His forest is growing every day and more animals seem to appear from every corner." She rubbed her dry hands against her forehead; the tiredness was evident in her green eyes. "I don't know how John puts up with him. I don't know how _you _put up with him."

I couldn't help but smile. "I'm afraid even I cannot give you a proper answer."

She laughed and flung herself down on a nearby chair. It creaked under her weight, but Mary simply flung her head back with a sigh. "Well, it's a good thing you care about him so much and that he cares about you. Or, soon enough, he won't have anyone left to rant to." That was true. John was not going to be around for much longer. Without him and without me, Sherlock would only have his brother and Missus Hudson to drive mad. And he had already pushed them past their limits. "So, how are the cards coming along?" She asked with her eyes still closed.

"Perfect," I answered. My lips blew a quick breath onto the wet ink, helping them to dry. "I only have two more left and I think we'll have more than enough. Did Gwendolen help you with the veil?"

"Oh, yes!" Mary sighed breathlessly. Her eyes cracked open with a sparkle. "It was so fortunate that you knew about her! She said she didn't remember you, but I mentioned that Irene woman, and she instantly gave me a discount. You know, I am so happy that I hired you!"

My cheeks began to turn rosy. I couldn't even recall the time when I had smiled so much. "You're very welcome, Mary. It was honestly my pleasure."

The soon-to-be-bride shut her eyes again and began to hum a happy tune. She was tired, and I left her to her daydreams while I finished up her cards. I thought about Gwendolen and the first time we had met. She knew I was a joke from the second I walked in, but Irene had persisted that I needed a hat. I ran out, embarrassed, never returning again.

But, her hats stuck in my memory. She could bend fabric like no other.

"Say, Renadale…" Mary's voice was quiet when she distracted my thoughts.

"Yes, Mary?"

"Do you know how to dance?"

My head instantly lifted to view her face. My cheeks were on fire at the sound of the verb. The memory of Sherlock and I on the ship was too difficult to get out of my mind, and I wondered if I had accidentally been thinking aloud. "I suppose I know a little. What… What causes you to ask?"

She smiled towards me, her eyes crinkling into little dots. "I was just thinking about how your birthday is coming up and that you are truly becoming a woman. We all have to be sophisticated, you know? We have to know about certain things for men to really see us as a…. Well, a woman."

"I won't lie," I muttered. "I was never good at dancing until recently."

"I'm _still _not good at it, but I work at other things to make up for it!" She grinned once again. My quill pen drummed away at the desk as thoughts flickered through my mind. What _did_ I know about being a female? Very little to say the least. "Tell me, what do you know about hair? And makeup?"

I gently touched my usual bun and remained quiet. I think the question answered itself.

"I don't want to be forward, but I thought I might be able to help you." Her voice was soft and hesitant. She was clearly embarrassed to be asking me this, but I saw no harm in it. "I'm just so grateful for you during this chaotic time and I thought I could give you some lessons in return. That is, if you would like me to."

"Lessons in feminine traits?" The idea sounded impossible when you threw _me_ into the mix.

"Yes," she laughed. "I suppose you could call it that. I'm not saying that you need it, because, you're frankly handsome as it were." Too many compliments gave me the opposite effect; I was beginning to feel nauseas. "However, one can never know when things like a French braid or ornamental combs come in handy."

I wouldn't disagree with her on that. Especially since Sherlock's attraction to disguises was growing each day. "That's a very good point. Could we start right now with a small tip?"

Mary was surprised to see how willing I was. "Of course!" She said with a small chuckle. "We can go into my room and sit at my vanity, if you'd like."

I felt like I was going into operation. As she sat me down on the stool, and we both got a good look at my face, I noticed that it could use some work. I hadn't powered it in a week and my eyes were bare. My hair was in its tight bun, but the color looked pathetic and dusty. Mary was smiling, but I couldn't wipe the grimace from my face. "I can't remember when I last looked in a mirror," I muttered.

"Like I said, you're lovely enough that you don't have to. You have natural beauty. But, one can never be too sure." She began to pull my bun from its hold. As my curls fell out, a mane of hair surrounded my face. "My, my!" She gasped. "You have quite a lot of hair, don't you? Luckily your curls are perfect."

"Thank you," I mumbled, unsure of what else to say. My hair always looked so different when it was down. I looked younger and more carefree. Sherlock had said he liked it when I wore it down. That was after he taught me jiu-jitsu and my hair tumbled from its ribbon.

But, I just couldn't get used to it. It wasn't what people expected of me.

I knew I should have been paying attention to what Mary was doing, but her words were in the back of my mind as she worked. I was afraid to look up and see what I looked like. I was afraid of liking it.

"And, that's basically it." She said as she clipped something on the top of my head. "It's simple, but the braids end up making it look elegant. Don't you agree?" My eyes remained on the wood of the counter. "Renadale, are you alright?"

I quietly glanced up towards the mirror. The braided hairstyle made me look like a completely different person, but I didn't feel right. "It doesn't suit me," I mumbled. "People might find it odd that my style suddenly changed."

"Who would?" She scoffed, putting down her comb. "John? Sherlock? Men never notice anything. I think your mother would be quite pleased. It looks lovely on you in case you ever want to use it."

I offered a smile to show my appreciation. There was sadness in her eyes as she returned the gesture, and I couldn't help but think that it was out of pity. "Perhaps I'll style it like this for your wedding. Surely I must look presentable for that occasion!"

"Yes," She sighed as she placed her hand on my shoulder. "Only if you wanted to."

~.~.~.~.~.~

Tomorrow was the day we were supposed to meet up with Irene Adler. I was quite fearful of getting tangled up in the mess, and was making my way to Sherlock's house to beg for my retirement from the project. Unlike him, I was still caught up in the Illuminati killer. I wanted to know who wrote the symbols, even if he _was_ dead.

I had just left Mary's flat and was pushing and shoving my way towards Baker Street. Construction oozed all around me as a railroad system was being set up across the city. Beggars gripped onto my arms, begging for anything, though I had as much money in my purse as them. Fruit stands shoved their apples in my face as I politely declined.

"Bombing in Strasbourg!" A voice screamed in the distance. "Anarchists bomb the great city! Big news! Read all about it!"

My feet froze in their tracks. Strasbourg? Bombing? It wasn't just a coincidence. I couldn't be! It had to be the same sort of bombings as the case presented. More had gone off in Germany, and now France? It looked like a set up. Ignoring the stench of the drunken men around me, I pushed my way to the other side of the street. "One, please," I muttered as I handed the boy a coin.

"Thanks, ma'am. Enjoy your read." He answered as he tossed the papers into my chilly hands.

Blowing on my fingers to warm them, I rushed towards Baker Street as fast as I could. Hopefully, Sherlock wouldn't be missing and we could read the story together. Though I had a sinking feeling he already knew all about it.

Thankfully, Watson's new residence wasn't too far away from Baker Street and I could rush towards the other neighborhood without getting too much attention. The dangling lantern on the porch blew with the gentle breeze, the "221b" on it staring me in the face. I quickly made my way inside, said my greeting to the landlady, and hurried up to his room.

"Sherlock," I said as my knuckles rapt on the doors. "I know you're in there. People say you're missing, but I'm not as easily fooled. Now, open the door." There was no answer. "Alright," I sighed casually. "I'm coming in."

I often had to let myself in, but it wasn't because I was unwelcome. Sherlock had better things to do than be a gentleman and open the door for me.

As soon as I entered the room, the usual branch went swinging towards my face. I caught it routinely and crisscrossed my way around the growing leaves. There was no sign of life anywhere in the apartment, except for the goat, vulture, frogs, and other creatures hiding about. Strangely, the animals' company was better than Sherlock's.

"You cannot hide forever," I said as I planted myself on the seat near the window. "Though, your mannequin is impressive…" I glanced towards the opposite side of the room, where a stuffed person was dressed in Sherlock's clothes. I noticed that some facial hair was drawn about his face, but all other features were ignored. "Sherlock, I've found something interesting!" I waved the newspaper temptingly above my head. "Don't you want to take a look at it?"

"Not particularly, _no_."

I tried to place where the voice was, but it faded before I could put my finger on it. "Well, that's an awful shame. So, you already know about the bombing in Strasbourg?"

"Well, I had assumed that some city was going to be reared from its hinges sooner or later. Naturally it would be France, because the last one was German. They'll soon be at each other's throats and England will be left out of the question."

"That's not my point."

"You have no point."

"True," I smirked, kicking my feet up on a table. I could sense him grimace from halfway across the room. My muddy shoes were disrupting his carefully designed biome. "However, aren't you at least curious as to what the imbecile newspaper publishers have to say?"

There was a long silence before I heard the floorboards creak. Out of the plants, Sherlock emerged wearing nothing but a white body suit. I couldn't stop myself from staring, but not in a romantic way. Not even remotely.

My body hung limp in the chair. The only motion I gave was a roll of my eyes. "Why on Earth are you wearing that?"

"I haven't finished yet," he muttered. "It's going to be a form of modern camouflage."

"For what purpose?"

"Any." The smile on his face gave me a shudder. He was really starting to lose his marbles. I knew that, however, and that was the reason I came to see him. Without another word, I stretched the newspaper towards him. He took it swiftly from my fingers and began to scan the front page. It took a minute for him to speak again. "So, Miss Adler was correct. We will be meeting tomorrow."

My eyes fell away from his face and turned to my boots. My shoes had been through so much and yet endured. I wondered if my brain was that lucky. "You're going to meet her at the auction, right?"

He simply nodded his head. I had no idea if he needed me to go; I was praying he didn't. Something about Irene and Sherlock distilled me. I could never feel properly comfortable around both of them together. Individually? Fine. Together? That required talent.

"Well, you'll have to tell me all about it." I faked a laugh as I gathered myself up from the chair. "Mary and I will be very busy finishing things up for the wed-"

"Mary? Mary doesn't need you tomorrow. I already told Watson that she needs to let you go for a day." His eyes never met mine as he spoke. Instead, he was preoccupied with a bald cap and fake beard he was working on.

"But, why? How can I possibly be of help to you? Surely you can snatch a package from Irene without me being there."

"Of course," he chuckled. "That is beyond comprehension. However, I need you to be in the auction house. You need to keep an eye on the Doctor and make sure he doesn't go anywhere. If something goes wrong, and I don't end up getting the package from Irene, it's your duty to be there and snatch it from her."

I was laughing inside of my head. My face was stern on the outside, but Sherlock took no notice of my clear frustration. "Me? Snatch it from her?" My voice dropped to a hush. "A _bomb_? You can't be serious, Sherlock! She triumphs me in many areas: persuasion, fighting skills, and appearance. Even if I did take the bomb, what would I do with it?"

His brows crunched together. "I hadn't gotten that far."

"Alright," I grumbled. "I'll be there. But, don't lose the bomb. Make my life easier and just get it from her, alright?"

Sherlock went back to picking at the fake, grey hair in his long beard. His smile was back on his face, but I felt unhappy about everything. Things were leaving a bitter taste in my mouth and nothing could wash it out.

"Renadale, you are the finest maid I have ever had."

"I'm the _only _maid you've ever had."

"I intend to keep it that way." A smile danced across my face for a brief moment, but I tried my hardest to hide it. His chocolate eyes flickered over his shoulder to look at me as I headed towards the door. My stomach couldn't help but flutter when I recalled the feeling of his lips on mine. "Oh, and Miss Adkins…" He called out. "Did you do something to your hair?"

"Oh," I muttered through a crack in the door. "Mary did it for me. I know it's foolish. We were just-"

"It's not foolish," he mumbled. "It's… nice." Clearly, complimenting me was the hardest thing he had done all afternoon. "It might come in handy some day."

"Thank… you?" My words couldn't help but sound like a question when I uttered them.

"You're welcome!" He sang out loudly as his back turned to me once again. "Shut the door on your way out; I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early at eight!"

I didn't even bother saying goodbye. The door closed behind me with a click. My back rested upon it as my lips let loose a heavy sigh. Something about the whole morning was making me sick. Mary was getting ready for her life to begin again, and what was I doing? I was babysitting a grown man who kept a turkey vulture as a pet.

It might have sounded humorous to those who didn't know him, but it was far from funny. I was also nervous about Irene. Naturally, I couldn't tell him that. The only person I could release my feelings to was John, and he was very much preoccupied. As I pulled myself away from the door, I just hoped that everything would go smoothly tomorrow.

Sherlock would get the package. I would get to go home. Irene would get punishment. All would be well with the world.

But, I had a feeling no one was listening to my prayers.

~.~.~.~.~.~

**Do you love Renadale? Do you love Sherlock? Do you love John? Review and say your fav character- give me some feedback please! **

**Much love goin' round.**

**YAY FOR A NEW STORY :D **


	2. Albatross

**Gratzie, Gratzie, Gratzie! All of your reviews were so wonderful! Oh, they just made my heart flutter right out of my chest. Let's keep the reviews up, shall we? :D I love hearing what you have to say!**

**On that note, a couple of you asked about RenaxSherlock moments, and I promise you, there will be many startling and grand ones in this story. So, keep reading if you want to find out what I mean! (: **

**Love all of the favorite characters and quotes. Time for another author's challenge! Question of the chapter: If you and Sherlock Holmes could go on a date to one place, where would it be?**

**Don't forget to review the chapter when you post. (: **

**MUCH LOVE xx,**

**Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

_I have nothing to wear._

This was not an issue that normally troubled me. However, as I prepared myself to go to the auction, I realized that there was no possible way of getting inside. At least, not with _my _wardrobe. There was no way that I could pass as wealthy and that set me up for automatic failure.

"Mother?" I called as I rushed down the stairs. My bare feet creaked against the rough wooden stairs, half eaten by termites. "This is a strange request, but do we have any extra money lying around?" My mother's eyes lifted up from the Daily Telegraph as she sipped her tea. A small smile slid across her face before she went back to reading the paper. That was all the answer I needed. "There's no way I'm going to be let in…" I whispered my fears aloud.

"Allowed in where?" Her eyes still scanned the front page.

"This auction I have to go to," I mumbled. I wasn't sure why I was telling her about it in the first place. Maybe I just needed someone to vent to. "Sherlock needs me to go and find someone, but I don't have the proper clothes. He's going to be so disappointed if I can't get inside."

"Sneak in," she said calmly.

"Excuse me?"

Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as she thumped the paper down. "Just pretend you work there! Someone will believe you eventually if you just wear a plain dress and say that you're a display girl." I was about to protest, but she firmly cut me off. "Renadale, I am no fool. I know very well that you have disguised yourself before on these little adventures. One more time surely can't hurt."

It was at this moment that I realized I truly strayed from the path of a 'normal' life. My own mother was pressuring me to be a crook; I knew I was on the verge of insanity.

Like a child, I stormed up to my room, unpleased with the advice I had been given. My body fell across my bed in a state of delirium. Why did I have to do this? Why couldn't John go? He had nothing to do for the wedding. Sherlock was planning his stag party (though I hadn't seen or heard anything about this for several weeks) and Mary and I did everything else.

Where_ was_ the doctor?

Grumpily, I hauled myself off of the bed to take a better look at the clock. I couldn't even read the exact time from frustration, though I knew I was late. If I wasn't at the auction soon, Sherlock was going to have a fit. Even though he would probably get the package himself from Irene, he would still have a fit.

"Mother," I shouted as I pettily made my way towards the front door. "I'm going out. I don't know when I'll be back."

"Bring back some bread for tonight's dinner."

"I just said I don't know when I'll be back."

Her curly head stuck out from around the corner. Her eyes were far from welcoming as she shot me a heated look. "Dinner. Tonight. Bring the bread."

There was no arguing with her. When she had made up her mind, she was adamant. "Yes, mother," I mumbled and headed my way towards _Cromwell and Griff's _without any determination in my steps at all.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Green. That was the first thing I noticed as I stood across the street from the Auctioneers. The massive awning was an olive green that resentfully mocked me. It was the color of money; something I clearly didn't possess. I wasn't going to put up a fight, but I was going to get inside or die trying.

My feet boldly took me up to the doorstep, but the second I arrived my heart changed its mind. I began to fall back into the river of people until a curious guard grabbed my attention. "Miss? Are you here for the auction? It's about to begin very soon." He was young and seemed friendly enough, but I struggled to find a proper answer.

"Yes?" I managed to squeak out. With a glowing smile, he politely held open the door for me.

That was it? Was it really that easy? I made my way inside, keeping my eyes on him the entire time. He continued to smile while I passed him underhanded glances. Apparently anyone could go to an auction as long as they promised to pay.

Now that I was inside, it was time to go to work. My eyes instantly scanned the room for Doctor Hoffmanstahl. There were many rich, old men lingering about the room, and planting my finger on just one wasn't very easy. The auction hadn't started yet and many people were making their way about the room to get a better look at the items.

_Think, Renadale. You are an Adkins. You have a brain. What did he look like? _

Sherlock's voice came fluttering back into my head from the day before.

"_Look for a man in a deep blue top hat; it's all the rage in central Europe. His skin will be utterly pale, having just been in the coldest part of Germany. His hair will be properly groomed and he has a white mustache. A doctor of his expertise will not need a cane or even glasses."_

The description and the man standing a measly two inches from me considerably matched up. I tried my best to keep an eye on him and he seemed to take very little notice of my pestering motives. I was nearly positive it was him and my thoughts were confirmed when a wrinkled woman came up to his side.

"Doctor Hoffmanstahl!" She said warmly. "It's so good to see you again! How was your recent trip to France?"

"Fine, thank you." He clearly wasn't a man of many words.

"How is Germany these days? Oh, Germany and France. Those two are going to kill each other before the year is out. Then again, perhaps we shouldn't be discussing that so openly." She let out a small giggle that matched her overly rouged cheeks.

"No." His sigh was followed by a hostile grimace. "Perhaps not." The Doctor didn't even say goodbye to the woman before he slinked off towards the back of the room. The auction was getting started and I needed to take my place.

I found a spot in the same row as him, but across the aisle. I would be able to watch him without it seeming suspicious. I didn't have a number, so I couldn't bit, but no one seemed to care. Perhaps they thought I was a wife of a bidder… or a mistress. My cheeks began to turn red just thinking about that.

"Good morning, ladies and gentleman!" A short man began to speak at the head of the room. His balding head seemed to shine under the room's emerald haze. Just like the outside, the place was covered in the greedy color. "We won't take long to get things started. We're here to bid and we request that you make a payment after your purchases. Thank you, and let us begin."

Whispers were dying down as the crowd settled into their seats. Spectators continued to swirl about the room; the whole place was itching with treasures and they audience's drooling mouths.

"The first lot…" The man spoke up. "These are royal cartouches from Ancient Egypt. They were found in the burial tomb of Yazid ibn 'Abdallah al-Hulwani, a ruler of Egypt for ten years. He was the first Turk to govern Egypt. We will be starting the bidding at twenty pounds."

A few hands immediately went up, and I felt my entire body shiver. Twenty pounds was enough to feed my mother and I for a year, maybe two. These people were spending it on jewelry that will be locked up in their cupboards. Those pieces should have been locked away in a museum; not sold to someone who doesn't need any more money.

I couldn't help but think back to Jacob Irons, who had a deep fascination with Egypt. His grey eyes were still etched into my memory as a reminder that not all kind faces are good ones.

The biddings continued on and on without even a peep of Irene. We were already on lot sixteen and I had slept through fourteen of them. Holmes and Adler had yet to present themselves, and as I waited my mind began to wander. Sick thoughts began trickling into my head as the twentieth item was displayed.

_What if Irene already planted the bomb? What if they accidentally made it go off and they're both dead? What if Sherlock got it, but got captured? What if Irene was never in London at all and I'm stuck sitting here without a clue?_

"Sold for two hundred pounds!" Everyone began to clap. I was brought back to reality at the sound of jealous hands. What on Earth would sell for two hundred pounds?

"Can you believe that?" The person next to me chuckled into my ear.

I resolutely shook my head. I couldn't believe anyone was buying _anything_. Doctor Hoffmanstahl, like me, had bought nothing. He was probably just waiting for his payment… his surprise package.

And what a surprise it would be.

"Lot number thirty-three…" The auctioneer said. I had apparently dozed off again, because I couldn't remember any of the objects. Now he was selling some sort of painting from a French Queen. If I didn't know any better, I would have though an artist from London's Bohemia painted it. I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms firmly over my chest. Looking like a lady was no longer a concern of mine. I was certain that everyone around me knew I wasn't one of them at that point.

Painting sold. One hundred pounds. Ludicrous.

"We now come to lot thirty-four…" The man's voice was oozing and tempting, as if what he was going to offer was some sort of fairy-tale castle. "Egyptian sarcophagus of outstanding providence, retrieved from the Valley of the Kings. Who will bid one hundred pounds?"

I casually rolled my head over to the left to see if the Doctor's hand would finally rise.

Oh, but it wasn't going to rise any time soon. Not when his prize was sitting right beside him.

"Irene!" I whispered harshly beneath my breath. My blood was flowing like a madwoman's. My palms were suddenly wet as I struggled to breathe normally. She was whispering something in his ear. I _had_ to get closer. I had to hear what they were saying!

That's when the disaster struck.

Where was Holmes? Why wasn't he with her? Why was she slipping him a neatly wrapped, brown package? I felt my hands grab the side of my face in horror. The man beside me looked frightened of me, but I didn't bother to explain myself. I had to stop her. I had to-

"Renadale?" Irene mouthed my name as our eyes uncomfortably met. Her mouth curled into a bright smile as she wagged her skinny finger towards me. She wanted me to come and talk to her. Like a puppy, I followed her command. My stomach felt like it was twisting inside of me. "Renadale Adkins," she cooed as I slid into the seat beside her. "My, my you are looking more lovelier than before!" Her compliments were not genuine, but she did seem pleased to see me. "You know, it's funny, but… I thought I would be seeing you in Chichester. After all, I did send Sherlock a letter telling him we would bump into each other. Unfortunately, that didn't happen."

Chichester? She was going to meet us in _Chichester? _The whole time Sherlock had thought that she was meeting was today… in London.

That meant that the bomb in Chichester wasn't supposed to have happened.

And if it wasn't supposed to have happened… then who was the target?

I couldn't seem to find the right words to respond. With the new information suddenly thrust upon me, and the bomb just carefully in my reach, my entire body felt numb. Where was the hero inside of me that I so often convinced myself I had? Irene didn't seem concerned with my answer. Her attention was instantly returned to her client. "I was assured full payment would be there," she said quietly.

"Yes, but assured by whom? Have you ever met him in person?" Irene didn't bother to grace that question with a response. The Doctor seemed not to care a wink for my presence. I was a measly friend of Miss Adler. I focused my attention on the item being sold, keeping the unwrapped bomb in the corner of my eye. "Or, like me, have you been-"

His fingers were sliding open the box. Bile felt like it was coming up my throat and I had to clasp my hands over my mouth to not scream. I didn't know what to do. Holmes would kill me if the bomb went off.

Or… I guess he wouldn't have to.

_Clink_.

A number thirty-three sign suddenly appeared on the bomb's handle, stopping the eruption. A yelp escape my lips while Irene only rolled her eyes. Sherlock Holmes had soiled her plans again. "Hold it, hold it…" Sherlock's voice displayed the frustration we all were feeling. "Please, don't move it." It was clear the Doctor had no idea what power he held in his hands. All I could think about was how grateful I was that Sherlock had showed up at the very last second. "Renadale!" His voice snapped me back to reality. "I'm very thrilled to see that you are here, doing one part of what I asked, but what happened to the second part?"

"I'm sorry!" I groaned. "Do you know how much pressure that put on me? I can't even run in a straight line without tripping!"

He flapped a hand at me, no longer interested. Saving the day was a forte of his and he could easily take care of things. "Judging by the size and weight, it's not the payment you expected," he explained to the Doctor. "I'd wager the contents are rather more… _incendiary_."

Irene's heavily powdered eyes flickered towards me with resilience written all over them. "How have you managed to put up with him for this long?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't sleep so I don't ever really think about things."

"Who _are_ these people?" Doctor Hoffmansthal demanded, still not aware of the issue at hand.

"It's…" Irene tried very hard to explain, but it was clear that our appearance just wasn't worth being mentioned. I didn't blame her.

Sherlock, however, cracked a toothy smile. "Hello, darling," he said cheerily as he went to kiss Irene on the cheek. As he turned his head to her, I could see a big gash on the side of his face. I was more appalled by that than his long smooch to her cheek. No wonder he was late; he had to get himself into another mess.

_Wait, is he trying to take the letter from her? _I glanced down at a note clasped tightly in her hand. Was that what he wanted? Surely, he didn't just kiss her without a reason.

Or did he?

My head was pounding with everything going on. I shut my eyes for a moment to concentrate, when a sudden whirring sound flooded my ears. "Oh, dear," Sherlock sighed. "I told you not to move it. It seems a secondary charge has been activated." My eyes shot open to see the bomb ticking. That bile taste was suddenly back. "Renadale, go light my pipe and put it by the tapestry."

"What?"

"You heard me," He sang under his breath, tossing me his beloved pipe.

If anyone saw me, I was dead. Flustered, and feeling a bit belittled, I did as I was told and made my way to the back of the room. The pipe was already hot and all I needed to do was poke at it before it started smoking. Secretly, I set it next to an antique rug that was soon setting ablaze. "I'm so sorry," I whispered to the poor fabric. It didn't stand a chance.

"One million pounds!" Sherlock suddenly announced, catching everyone's attention. "Oh, and by the way… fire."

The crowd was out of that store in two seconds flat, leaving the four of us alone and unprotected. I watched the bomb click away and the fire continue to blaze up. My feet wanted to run with the rest of the group, but something held me back.

"Renadale!" Irene laughed, though her chuckles had fuming irritation behind them. "It's been _so _lovely seeing you. Perhaps we can get together tomorrow if I'm still in town."

"Alright…" I said shakily. "I'll-"

"I'll send for you," she snapped. "Oh, and _don't_ be late for dinner!" She said as she whirled around to face Sherlock. The ruddiness in her face was even more so than normal. "I expect that my schedule will be _quite tight_ because of the activities here."

Their faces were dangerously close as they exchanged the rest of their conversation. I felt like I was invading privacy as I watched them speak so intimately, but I couldn't seem to peel my eyes away. My fingers reached for the pipe to protect Sherlock's favorite accessory, but I was not properly thanked.

They were kissing each other.

I thought I might drop the pipe in surprise, but I quickly caught myself. It was soon clear that Irene was trying to get back the letter that Sherlock had taken. However, he hadn't taken it.

I had.

I felt the wrinkled fabric in the pocket of my coat, safe and sound. She had taken me for a fool. It was my form of revenge, as much as I liked her company. No one ever suspects the quiet, unreliable one. I couldn't help but offer up a small grin to myself. My mother would have been proud.

"Very witty!" I heard Holmes say as he pulled away from her. "So confident, even in retreat." He lifted his brows expectantly towards me, and I quickly tossed him the letter. He wagged it tauntingly in her face; it was clear she had no idea I had stolen it. "I'll hold onto that. We'll read it together over an aperitif. "

"Fine," she cooed. She might have lost round one, but there was _always _room for round two. "Dinner and a show. As for you, Renadale, I expect us to go shopping for a new hat as soon as we can." Without another word, she left. She had said and done all that she could. Now, she had to deal with her employer… whoever he may be.

I prayed he would have mercy on her soul. How much trouble would she be in, when all of the other bombings had gone so smoothly? I looked up to catch Holmes's eyes fixated on mine. They were trying to tell me something. Something I couldn't quite gather.

_I'm sorry._

Tightness encircled my heart. I was reminded of their lip lock moments ago, even if it was just for professional purposes. But, I could sense the attraction when their faces were close. I could see distant memories in the color of their cheeks. They wanted one another… even if it was just a little bit.

Doctor Hoffmanstahl was momentarily forgotten. His thin body squirmed uncomfortably about as he watched the scene take place.

"Stay!" Sherlock said as he snatched the bomb from his fingers. "Trust me. This is what I do for a living."

I snickered. Could he call it living?

Sherlock rushed down the aisle towards the sarcophagus. I watched him with knitted brows, afraid of what he was going to do next. "Sherlock?" I called out as he tossed the bomb inside of the tomb. "Are you sure that's…"

"Herr Hoffmanstahl! You should count yourself lucky!" He grinned like a madman as he dropped the cover onto the stone casket. "This faceless man with whom you find yourself in business with is no ordinary criminal. He's the Napoleon of crime."

I felt my hands automatically make their way towards my hips. Did Sherlock _know _who the employer was? It wouldn't have surprised me that he had kept it a secret if he did. After all, I hadn't seen him in two days, and when I did we spoke very little. But why the sudden secrecy?

"Fortunately, you now have Miss Adkins and I as allies!" Sherlock gestured towards me. I wasn't smiling. I suddenly wasn't proud to be his partner.

Sherlock kept going on and on as he entered a closet. Hoffmanstahl was getting up to leave and I waved him on. All was well and good with the world, and there was nothing we could do anymore. He looked grateful for me letting him pass, but I honestly didn't have a care in the world.

It was perfect timing when the bomb went off inside. Holmes was silenced, and when he reappeared his face was covered in grey dust. I winced; he looked elderly. "Well, that was… not exactly according to plan." He coughed.

"I suppose you could say that." My feet carried me over towards him, where I gently dusted some dirt away from his face with my handkerchief. He didn't complain; he leaned into my touch and shut his eyes silently.

"Renadale…"

"It doesn't matter," I muttered. "You were only doing what you saw fit." His eyes cracked open. We looked at one another without a word; no apologies, no complaints. "Look what you're done to yourself," I whispered as I touched the cut on his cheek. He winced in pain as he gently took my hand.

"That's still tender."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I whispered. "You knew who he was this whole time and you never bothered to tell me?"

"No," he instantly defended himself. "I did not know who he was until yesterday. I had many theories and assumptions, but I think I have found who it is. I have also kept it to myself for a reason; a very _good _reason."

I couldn't think of a worthy enough reason to hide it from me, but I did not argue. "Does Watson know?"

"He will. Eventually."

"He needs to know. As do I."

Holmes visibly grimaced at the idea of this. Either he wanted the mighty knowledge to himself, or he really didn't want us to know. I had this sick assumption that it was actually Mary, but I realized the absurdity of that idea very quickly. "I will tell you as soon as I can."

"You have to promise me," I warned.

Sherlock nodded. "I promise with every fiber of my being."

I stared at him for a moment, trying to catch a glimpse of honestly, which eventually I did. His eyes weren't blinking which a clear sign that he wasn't lying. "Go and catch Hoffmanstahl before he disappears," I mumbled, brushing his cheeks with the back of my fingers. "… And clean yourself up before your dinner date."

I genuinely didn't want Irene to have a hold on him. I had fought for him for too long; I had lost too much to just let him slip through my fingers. I would try a little bit, and if he changed his mind and went back to her, then I would succumb. I only wanted to see him happy.

My toes rose to plant a kiss on his marred cheek. As I went to touch his skin, I felt something softer upon my lips. His own lips were pressed against mine, firmly stating his regret. It wasn't a simple goodbye kiss. It was a true guarantee. When he spoke, his words were filled with angst. "I don't mean for these things to happen."

"Just go," I smiled. "I understand."

"No, Renadale, I… I mean it. My right mind may be far away from me at this moment, but somehow you seem to handle that. You tolerate me better than most, and for that I am solemnly in your debt." I smiled, still not understanding the broad confession. "The point is, I am not troubled because I know that you understand my lack of justifications at times like this. I didn't realize it was you who I needed until I had lost you."

He broke from my grasp just then, as my heart somehow tore and put itself together at the same time. Those words were the most loving he had ever uttered. Because of his words, I felt comfortable letting him go to her. He wouldn't leave me. He had tried just as hard as I had to keep me around.

And for that, _I_ was the one truly in debt.

~.~.~.~.~.~

**More goodies yet to come! Keep reading if you want to see… Action! Romance! Murders! Gypsies! And much more!**

**What happens when the mystical Sim comes into play? How will Renadale feel about the wedding? Will everyone make it out unfazed? STAY TUNED TO FIND OUT :D **

**And please review. Kay, thanks. Bye. (: **


	3. Mixed Interactions

**Hey guys! WARNING: So, this chapter is sort of lame (okay SUPER lame), but the next chapter is going to be REALLY fun for me to write (and hopefully for you to read) so I hope that this is a nice chill chapter before a big bang! :D**

**Thanks for all of your lovely comments! I love to get some more, yeah? (: Nothing makes me happier than seeing your reviews, and you were all doing SO well on the first chapter. **

**Thank you, however, for a large amount of reviews from people who normally DON'T review (Angelica, Wen, etc) (: That always makes me incredibly happy, and I love knowing who is out there! Also, thanks to girlwithwings for my horrible, yet slightly humourous spelling error…**

**Author's Challenge for this chapter: What has been your favorite Renadale and Sherlock moment? Oh, so many to choose from. One that I tend to think about a lot is the scene in Poisoned Dreams where they have a little romance scene in the hallway. Chapter 22. ^^ **

**LET'S KEEP IT UP! YEAH! **

**Love you all,**

**-Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

My hands persistently knocked at John's door; something they had gotten very good at. It was around his break time and I knew he would be at home. My constant banging was hard to ignore, and it didn't take long for John to appear before me in the entryway. "Renadale?" His voice was shocked. "The knocking was so exasperating, I was certain that it was Holmes."

"Go and speak to him," I replied firmly.

"Hello to you as well."

"You should go right this minute. He should be at Baker Street preparing for a dinner date with Irene." I felt something soft nudge against my foot. Gladstone was greeting me with some kisses along the hem of my dress. "Mrs. Hudson said you were dropping the dog off tonight anyway, so view it as an extra early trip?"

Watson grumbled with a roll of his eyes. "Why exactly do I need to do this all of a sudden? Things have been really busy with work and I should probably go back soon. Sherlock Holmes doesn't need any help of _mine_. In fact, he's obstinate about it." All I needed to do was look gloomy for John to succumb. "Alright, I'll do it. Might I ask what all of the rush is for, though?"

"He knows who Irene's employer is, but he won't tell me. He said he might eventually, but I think he'll hold it back as long as possible. I have a feeling it's going to upset me, but I can't think of why." I kept picturing Holmes's reluctant face in my mind when I had asked who the mystery man was. "He'll probably tell you and then you can pass the word along."

"So, I'm going to be going behind his back to tell you? He's going to put his trust in me and then I am suddenly going to break it?" When you put it like that, it sounded horrible, but I nodded. I couldn't deny the truth. "Sounds brilliant. I'll go grab my cane."

I was pleased with myself. I was one step closer to finding out the big secret. I was cracking a case within a case. Sure, I had to be stealthy about it, but I was quickly realizing that secrets were just facts dying to be discovered.

"Will you be joining me?" John reappeared with Gladstone clipped to his side. "You could just wait outside and come in after I've discovered the answer. I certainly wouldn't mind seeing his staggered face."

I shook my head, though the idea was tempting. "I'm afraid you'll have to do it solo. I have to go and fetch bread for my mother. She wants a quiet supper tonight with just the two of us."

John smiled as he shut the door behind him. "Then, I'll at least walk with you until we have to separate ways?"

"I'd like that," I grinned. It seemed like ages since John and I had properly spoken, and there was so much happening that the moment seemed fitting. I began to speak as we made our way out onto the street. "So, are you excited for your stag party this evening?"

"It's coming up very soon," he sighed. "I'm just afraid that Sherlock doesn't realize it. He hasn't uttered a word to me about it and none of the boys at work have said anything. If they're trying to keep it a surprise, they're doing a fine job at it." Watson's looked low-spirited. "Truthfully, I'm sure he's forgotten all about it."

My lip curled into a frown. I had been thinking the same thing, but I didn't want to upset him. I should have done a better job at reminding him, but I doubt he would have listened. A stag party was supposed to be one of the most memorable nights of a man's life… That is, _if _he could remember it after the booze. "He wouldn't overlook it," I encouraged. "He's your best mate. Surely he has a bit more dignity than that."

Watson's eyes were slits when he glanced over at me. Okay, so maybe I was being too hopeful. "It's funny," Watson sighed. "There are so many good men out there who I would much rather spend my time with, and yet I always wind up going back to him."

"He needs you," I said softly as we came to an intersection near Regent's Park. "He acts like he's on top of the world, but you're the one holding up his feet!"

He laughed, but only because he knew it to be the truth. "Oh, Rena, how long has it been since we've had a good chat?"

"Far too long," I smiled. "I believe the last time was in Chichester and involved me bursting into your room without warning." We both smiled at the memory. "Your big day is coming up, so I don't blame you for not showing your face much."

"On that note, you've been such a _huge_ help to Mary. She doesn't have many connections in London and she really seems to fancy your presence." I felt flattered by this; I had never really had any friends and Mary was certainly the best candidate.

We made our way across the busy street, laughing as we nearly got ran over by two coaches. Those were the moments I loved most; laughing so much that you forgot where you were. Being with friends and not having to worry about another dead body showing up in an hour. Sure, it was gruesome, but you had to take note of the little things. Those moments were very rare, but I savored them with my entire heart.

"You know, we haven't even talked about the case," Watson smirked. "Did you hear about the Strasbourg bombing?"

"Of course," I sighed. "I also just discovered earlier today that the bomb in Chichester could have been prevented. There's just so much going on that it's hard to focus on one incident at a time. I just hate leaving things unfinished."

Watson paused in his tracks, choking Gladstone to a stop. The dog looked up at its owner in confusion, but Watson was the one who looked more astonished. "Does Holmes know about this?"

"No, he doesn't, actually. There was never an opportune moment to discuss things with him."

"Well, then you have to come with me and tell him," Watson urged. "Where did you receive that information?"

"Irene told me that she was there." I hated having to spill my secret so soon, but I knew it was for the best. "I have no idea who she was delivering the bomb to. When she wrote Holmes in Paris, we both thought she was talking about meeting today in London. Apparently we were a few days too late."

"Renadale, this is big news. You could discover who the Illuminati murderer was with that information!" Watson's eyes sparkled just as mine had.

"Yes, but Sherlock says that it isn't important anymore. He said that man is dead and that we should be focusing on the bombs. I know he's not in his right mind, but perhaps he has a point. Perhaps I _am_ being foolish to look back."

Watson rolled his eyes. He set his hand on my back and pushed me further along the road as he spoke up. "Sherlock Holmes has no sense of conclusion. The case is still wide open. If it connects to the bombings, don't you feel dissatisfied with not knowing who the target was? Sherlock doesn't, but it's gut-wrenching to me to know that those innocent men died without close."

"I feel the same," I insisted. "Their ghosts might still be wandering the streets, searching for an end. I just don't think I can do it alone and Sherlock isn't willing to help."

We had reached the corner where our paths would split, but Watson waited to take his leave. "I think you should come with me. We can both try to explain to Sherlock that we're close to solving the case. We can close it with ride and perhaps he'll listen if we both step in."

I shook my head as my stomach audibly growled. "I have to go out and buy bread or my mother will surely kill me." Watson didn't smile. He wasn't pleased with my choice, and I instantly feared the worse. "Please don't tell him I told you about all of this! I don't want to add more pressure onto him. I think he's doing better." That was a lie. If anything, his marbles were totally gone. "His sense is starting to return to normal." Watson cocked his head to the side. "Okay, he's still mad, but I don't want to bother him with old news. I want to try to solve this one on my own until he's willing to help."

"Alright, I won't utter a word. I'm always here if you need help." Watson had finally given in. "And what about when he tells me who this employer is? Do you want me to report back to you?"

My roguish smile peeked out. "That would be exquisite," I sung. Watson's mustache rose with his smile. After we both hugged our farewells, I couldn't help but catch sight of his scarf. "Oh, Watson, what a lovely scarf! Did Mary make it?" I did like the scarf; it matched his eyes and hair.

"Yes," he sighed. "I'll be honest, though. It's good knitting, but I don't think it suits me. But, my fiancée made it and I wear it with all of the pride I can possibly muster."

"Be proud," I nudged him. "She's a real lady, that Mary. Any man would be pleased to wear one of her scarves around his neck."

He lifted it up proudly. "Let's hope it doesn't land on some other bloke's neck in a year's time." We both laughed and took our separate ways, sending one another a wave until we disappeared from view. I could hear the railroad construction not too far off, and I knew that it wouldn't be long until Watson reached his old home.

I was crawling out of my skin in anticipation. Soon, I would know Irene's secret. The day was beginning to feel wonderful, despite the chill running in the early spring months. It was off to the bread stands for me; cooking would keep my mind off of my impatiently awaited news.

Rye bread, wheat bread, white bread, nut bread. There were so many options! I wished my life could have been laid out before me for my own choosing. My fingers rose to my lips in despair as I skimmed over all the different flavors. "That one." I pointed to the white bread. The man nodded and handed me a loaf, asking for a measly two pence.

I safely tucked the bread under my arm and headed back towards my house. Walking alone in the quiet back streets was always a comfort to me. I knew there was a higher chance of crime, but it took you away from the hustle of the city. It let you escape from the wandering eyes and the tireless shoving. Whether you were in the grimy bits or the high ends, everyone had places to get to and didn't care one bit for your wellbeing.

The bread was cold, but it's smelled trickled up to my nose. Unwelcomed thoughts entered my head. _Will Holmes and Irene be eating bread tonight? Will it taste like this? Will they finish their meal off with more bread and a glass of wine?_

_Oh, who am I kidding. Irene would never fill herself up with bread._

Alright, I'll admit. I was jealous. Sherlock had taken me to an opera, but that was the only date I could recall. Not to mention, he persistently reminded me that it was _not _a date. The memory made me laugh in disgust as I turned the handle to my door.

"Mother!" I called out grumpily. I was still heated up with the idea of the two rekindling that night. "I've got the bread!" She was making noise in the kitchen as she set up the table for dinner. I set down the bread and kissed her warmly on the cheek.

"My, you're freezing!" She gasped and took my face in her warm hands. "Do you need some tea?"

"No, mother," I smiled. "I'll be alright."

"Nonsense," she rolled her eyes. "You need tea. Sit down and begin cutting up the bread. I've fixed some cheese and cold cuts for us."

I laughed as I began to unwrap the loaf. "What, are we suddenly Germans?" My mother glanced at me from behind her shoulder. The last thing she wanted to be accused of was being a German, but I merely smiled in return. "Just joking."

"I won't lie; I'm surprised to see you home tonight." She was right; she wasn't lying. The amazement in her voice was authentic. "No plans with the boss? It seems like you two haven't been seeing much of one another lately."

My knife fell onto the table in discomfort. Shakily, I picked it back up and began to cut once more. "Well, it's just because of Mary's wedding. That's all. Things have been very busy for both of us." My mother was silent in return. It was clearly a touchy subject, but I did want to get things out. I could feel the words bubbling in my throat until they were unable to be restrained. "He's out tonight with an old friend. A woman."

"He has friends?"

"Yes, and she's…" What was the proper word? "Well, she's beautiful. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, not to mention she's enormously witty."

"She's American, isn't she?"

I laughed, but not from happiness. My fingers tiredly rubbed my forehead as I allowed my eyes to close for a second. She's as American as they come." The sigh that I let out was shaky, and I instantly felt my mother's warm hands on my shoulders.

"There, there, love," she whispered into my hair. "Things have been hard for you these past couple of months, but if I've noticed one thing, it's that he cares about you. He might have a strange way of showing it, but at least he's putting himself out there."

I thought of everything that had happened over the past few months. The murders. The bombs. Edward; dark and beautiful. Thomas the Unexpected. The wedding. Even Mycroft had been a surprise. My life had suddenly become like a storybook in less than a year. I had my first kiss, and my second kiss at that, both with different men. There was betrayal and jealousy that made up for the lack of it in my past twenty-four years. Somehow, none of it seemed real. Even though I felt the emotions with each passing day, I couldn't make sense of them.

"Dearest, don't think so hard." I looked down to see a plate full of meat and cheese sticking under my nose. "Eat this," my mother urged. "Food really does have a way of making one feel better. Not to mention, you've become a scrawny little thing these days."

I couldn't have agreed more. It didn't take long for me to devour the food she had given me and then give myself permission for seconds. Mother and I briefly talked about politics, but I knew she fancied gossip more, so I began to switch the subject.

"So, any juice about London?" I asked between a mouthful of meat and cheese. "Any scandals that I should be aware of?"

"Everyone's eyes are on Germany and France at the moment. There's nothing new here as far as I can tell." She instantly slapped my hand. "Renadale, stop eating in that fashion! You look like a savage!"

"What?" I laughed with a shrug of my shoulders. "It's not as though I'm trying to impress a man, am I?"

A light knocking interrupted both of our giggles. We instantly turned to the door, our breads frozen beside our mouth. "If that's a man who has come for you, I'm going to call this karma," my mother whispered.

"I'll get it," I mumbled as I swallowed the rest of my dinner. If my thoughts were correct, it should have been John with the information. My bare feet rushed me towards the door, my hands flinging the rusty handle back. "Hello?"

Indeed, it was John at the other side, but he was not as pleased as I was. "Good evening, Rena." His words were utterly slowly.

"And a good evening to you as well, John. Is everything alright?" My composure instantly dropped to a slump as I read the bad news on his face. "Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"

"Actually, I don't want to seem pushy, but tea does sound rather perfect."

I urged him inside as quickly as possible. Without fuss, he made his way to the kitchen table and sat himself down. My mother stared wide-eyed at the handsome man. There hadn't been anyone of his sex in our house in ages, and I believe my mother fancied John from his last visit. "Good evening Mrs. Adkins." He tried to smile towards my mother, but it came out twisted and unpleasant.

"Mother," I said uncomfortably. "Why don't you fix John up a cup of tea? Make him feel at home, hm?" My mother was on it in seconds, getting the kettle ready for our guest. I quietly sat down beside him. I felt bad that I had eaten all of the food, but he did not seem hungry. He just seemed peeved. "Is there something you want to talk about?"

John nodded, but his eyes were glued to my mother. It was clear that our talk needed to be private. Luckily, my flustered mother got the hint and left after she set down his teacup. Watson was quiet as he sipped his drink, but I was squirming like a maggot in my chair. What news did he have?

"Renadale, forgive me," he suddenly spoke up. "I just don't think I can tell you."

"Tell me what?" I laughed. "You haven't even said anything at all. Does he know who the man is? Who Irene's employer is?"

"Yes," John sighed as he peeled off his top hat. "That's just the problem. Sherlock has good reason to believe that he is not _just_ her employer. He thinks that this man has control over a great many things, including…"

"Including?"

"Including Doctor Hoffmanstahl's death."

The words were not what I expected to hear. My previous thoughts about Irene were suddenly vanished, and like Watson's face, I began to feel sick. "But, he's… he's not dead. I just saw him just the other day."

"It was right after that. Sherlock found him with a dart in his leg. He died on the spot."

My stomach began to feel weak. He had been the target in the bomb. The bomb hadn't happened, so someone clinched him in another fashion. It was quiet and simple, and above all else, easy to get away with. "This is all so sudden," my voice was flooded with regret. "I'm so sorry that I didn't come with you. If I hadn't kept Holmes up after the auction, he might have-"

"Don't do that to yourself," Watson said firmly. "It was not your fault at all. Sherlock would have liked to tell you himself," John sighed. "But, in the end I think it was best that you didn't come with me. He told me more and I'm not sure you'll want to hear it."

"Why ever not?" I muttered. "What could possibly be more shocking than the Doctor's death?"

Watson's blue eyes flickered towards mine. Wrinkles were woven into his forehead, and it was evident that this was a challenge. "Renadale, I don't want to be the bearer of bad news. I don't want to say this any more than you want to hear it, but as your friend, I believe it's the right thing." I wanted to encourage him to spit it out, but my voice was locked in my throat. "Things have changed, but I think Sherlock is right about this one. It will come as a surprise to you, as I know it did with me."

"Don't be afraid to tell me." I uttered, though I was honestly afraid to hear it.

"Alright, well first there were rumors that it was a heart attack. But, Sherlock had the dart. Clearly, he was murdered." Watsons sighed heavily. "I won't go into detail, but all of the facts matched up. There was only thing his death had in common with the tobacco scandals, the bombings and the steel magnet death in America."

I had to grip the tablecloth to keep my palms from sweating. "All of this anticipation is killing me," I confessed. "I won't be startled; I promise. Just tell me who this all adds up to. Tell me who this person is."

Watson's sorrowful eyes couldn't bear to look into mine. He stared down into his empty cup, twirling it around in his hands. The liquid stayed inside, but the truth splashed over Watson's blue lips. "Professor James Moriarty."

Professor James Moriarty. _The_ James Moriarty. "That's not possible," I snickered as I stood from my chair. "There's no possible way that he could get mixed up in these sorts of things. He's a good man."

"No, he could," Watson assured. "And he did. Think about the lecture you told me about. You said how strange he was acting about the Illuminati. This could also be a key to solving the other case with the book murders!" I knew he was right, but I didn't want to admit it to myself. The words weren't adding up. How could such an intelligent man be so devious?

Unfortunately, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. He had so many connections in higher places. He knew so much about the Illuminati. His friends were often associated with business, no doubt in the war sanctum as well. Yet, it wasn't he who was in France. He must have hired someone.

Watson's soothing voice flooded my thoughts. "Sherlock has no idea that I'm telling you all of this, but you needed to know. The second he told me, I knew it wasn't fair to you." I did not thank John for this information, though eventually I would. "When you see him later tonight, you need to tell him what I've told you."

More problems were beginning to arise. "When I _see_ him later tonight? What do you mean by that? I had no intentions on a visit."

"He's requested that you come by. Don't ask me why; I haven't got a clue."

Someone was surely pulling a jest on me. First the Professor and now this. "John, tonight is your stag party. Surely he's going to be escorting you there, so why does he need me to come?"

John glanced at a nearby clock. "Yes, but not for another couple of hours. I couldn't lie to him. I told him that I was coming to see you and that you needed to know the truth. Now that you know, he wishes for you to go to him."

I thought it was a sweet gesture; perhaps he wanted to comfort me in my time of despair. However, I couldn't wash the anger away. I wanted answers and I wanted them from his very lips. "Oh, you don't have to worry about that," I smirked darkly. "I'll be seeing him _straight_ away."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

**Okay, I know it was short and not productive! But, I'm looking forward to the next part. (: Also, I realize that in the movie Watson goes straight from Sherlock's to the stag party, but I'm going to slip some time in there for Renadale to go and visit Holmes… **

**Hope this doesn't bother anyone. ^^ THEN IT'S OFF TO THE STAG PARTY WE GO!**

**Or do we go? **

**By jove, please review.**

**-Mistro**


	4. Hell of a Party

**Well hello there, friends! What brings you all here on this fine evening? **

**Ahhh, you wish to read about a stag party, do you? You wish to immerse yourself into the land of pain, money, women and booze, is that it?**

**You should be ashamed of yourself. I'll be writing you up for this.**

**Nonetheless, everyone needs their fun days, so enjoy the chapter. **

**Just try not to enjoy yourself too much.**

**~G Lestrade~**

**~.~.~.~.~**

Mrs. Hudson was far from pleased. I wasn't inside for two seconds before she interrupted my path with her fiery eyes. "Take care of him," she spat out. Angrily, she pushed a glass vial into my hands. "He has a goat that needs worming, and I don't think I can stand another second of that man's face, voice or jungle."

I struggled to find the proper response. "But… I know nothing about goats."

Her upper lip twitched in disappointment. I shrunk back as her clenched fists took the liquid away with uncharacteristic force. "It was foolish of me to even suggest it." Her sighs were loaded with burdens. "Just make him sane again, will you? Fix him in any way that you can!" She began to mutter curses beneath her breath as she headed back towards the kitchen. "I don't even care if it's legal or not."

My voice swallowed itself up inside of my throat. Mrs. Hudson had suddenly made me weary about going up the stairs; I nearly headed straight for the door to leave. But, I pressed on for both our sakes. We needed something from the other.

I needed answers.

He needed a straightjacket.

Each step creaked beneath my weight. The stairs were screaming at me to turn around. They said that I wouldn't like what I was about to see, and they were right. It was a warning for the truth; a truth that I feared.

_Professor James Moriarty. My hero. A killer._

Just the thought was enough to bring tears to my eyes. Picturing James Moriarty planning to kill a roomful of people made my heart crumble into pure dust. My bottom lip was sore from biting, but I couldn't cry in front of Sherlock. I didn't even know the facts yet.

I didn't wait for him to answer the door. Swatting away at a yellow snake, I finally emerged into the sunset of the living room. Though it was full of treasures, the place felt empty. The shimmer of the orange sun cast a romantic mood, but I wasn't feeling tender. My whole body was shuddering inside of itself. I thought my bones might leap out from my very skin. "Sherlock?" I whispered softly. No response was received. "Sherlock, are you here?"

The silence that passed did not last long. I heard the plants moving behind me and turned to find Sherlock descending from the bushes. He was dressed elegantly for the party, but judging by the exhaustion written all over his face, he held little excitement. "Renadale," was his only reply.

What could I say? Whatever I said would tear my heart into two. The tears were threatening to fall once more, but I stopped them with my words. "I want proof of this claim you've made."

Sherlock only looked at me with desolation buried in his eyes. I thought he was never going to answer me, but he silently put his hand in mine and pulled me into John's office. My fingers tightened around his warm skin. I was trying to find comfort in any way possible.

We made our way around the mess and stood before the fireplace mantel. Letting go of my hand, he let me look for myself. I saw numerous articles with all of their fraying string connected to the face of the Professor. It was like the red vines were hungry for the man. He was the fly in a net of spider webs.

"I… I just don't understand…" The words barely escaped my lips. I could feel Sherlock's eyes fixated on me, but I couldn't bring myself to look back. I could see the red sun beating against his face and lighting up his dark eyes like a pit of fire. There was no menace in them. Only concern.

"It's difficult to understand why powerful people do bad things." His words were laced with honesty. "Don't take it too harshly upon yourself."

My stomach couldn't help but twist at the idea. I had been a fan of a possible murderer. Somehow it was all hitting me the more I stared into his black and white face. The red lines that rushed towards his gut reminded me of my own blood. It was swimming about my body. I was alive. There were so many people who were not.

And it could have been his fault.

The room began to spin around me. Blackness was taking over my eyesight and I felt myself tumble a bit into the fireplace. My fingers gripped the edge of the mantel, where I stayed for a minute. "Renadale, I insist that you sit down," Sherlock muttered as he gently grasped my upper arm.

I pressed my forehead into the wood and shut my eyes. There was nothing I wanted to do. There was nowhere I wanted to go. I just wanted to stay like that forever. "I'm fine," I whispered into the darkness. Behind my sealed eyes, I could see the setting sun turning my entire vision orange. It was like an endless valley of grain stretched out before me with no end. That place seemed much more peaceful.

"I think you need to take your mind off of things."

My eyes snapped open. With the back of my hands, I brushed away a single tear and looked at my speaker with puzzlement.

"With a bit of… late night… rabblerousing."

My previous concerns were forgotten. If he was suggesting what I _presumed _he was, I wouldn't stand for it. "I just want you to know that I am currently not in the best of moods. And, if you are recommending that I join you and John at his stag party this evening, I'm afraid you are setting yourself up for a world of disappointment."

"Mycroft will be there."

"He's charming, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline."

Sherlock must have guessed that would have been my answer, because he quickly jumped in with a sanative. "Yes, but you would help us a great deal if anything were to go astray. You were so very helpful at the auction. And, considering I failed to plan well for this evening, I believe things _will_ become a bit more hectic than I had originally planned for them to."

"There were so many disappointing things in that monologue, I can't even choose where to begin."

"It's important that you go," he said with a heavy sigh. "I would very much like you to."

I could have asked him why, but it might have been better that I hadn't. Things were overwhelming that evening and a night of good fun would certainly take my mind off of things. "If I did agree to go…" A smile flickered onto his unshaven face. "Which is merely hypothetical at this moment… How could I even get in? Isn't it only for men?"

"That is not something you should concern yourself with."

My fingers drummed against my leg as I pondered over the idea. The tears were drying on my cheeks as I imagined the possibility. "Alright," I caved. "I'll go with you. But, just this once." I realized the irony in that sentence, but Holmes did not seem to care. A soft kiss was gently planted on my cheek.

"Thank you, darling." Holmes waltzed towards the front door. "You won't regret it! I promise you."

_Slam._

"Darling?" I muttered to myself after the door shut. My skin tickled where he had just lingered, and I knew that I was instantly at his command. All because of a little word.

Darling. He had said the pet name to Irene so many times that I had lost count. Never once had he uttered it to me. Was it a good thing? Was it a negative thing? Was I looking far too into the situation than I should have been?

"Renadale, are you coming?" Holmes stuck his head in through a crack in the door.

"Uh… yes. Right behind you."

"Before you go, I want you to do something for me. Watson does not know that you're coming. In fact, he _cannot_ know." Somehow, this stag party was starting to seem less enjoyable already. "You see; you'll be of service _later_ on. If he sees you going from the very start-"

"He'll wonder what I'm doing there," I sighed with a nod. "He'll know that something isn't right. I understand. My lips are sealed."

"Perfect." The smirk on his face read more than satisfied.

"Are we taking your… vehicle?"

I didn't know what to call it. Sherlock had invented his own carriage, but it moved without a horse. He showed it to me once before, but I refused to go for a ride. It was loud, smoky and scared everyone away. Londoners looked at it as though it were a rampant bull. I was fearful of even getting near it, and having to travel inside seemed like a death wish.

"Of course!" My stomach dropped to the floor. "You'll have to sit on the back with your legs hanging over. You can hold the luggage and I'll make sure John doesn't spot you. When we reach the club, you can just hop off."

My brows furrowed together. "Then what will I do?"

A high-pitched hum escaped his lips as though he was considering telling me, but he nonchalantly waved it away as though it was of little importance. "That's nothing to concern yourself with. Come! Watson should be here _bientôt._"

He began to hop his way down the stairs with me closely behind. Knowing it was cold outside, I dug my fingers into my coat pockets. Something smooth inside took me by surprise, and I instantly grasped Sherlock's shoulder to stop him. "Oh, Sherlock!" I laughed, tugging out his pipe. "I nearly forgot to give this back to you."

Sherlock spun around in surprise. "I thought it had burned along with the fire!" He was like a boy who found his lost stuffed animal beneath his bed. "Renadale, what would I do without you?"

"Oh, a great many of things, I think." My cheeks were blushing profusely, but I couldn't help but be distracted. "…Sherlock? Why do you have a beard on your face?"

Beneath the fake facial hair, a delighted smile spread across his lips. "Is it attractive to you?"

"I'm not going to grace that question with an answer."

Sherlock let out a hearty laugh: a rare moment than I promised to remember. "Not too worry," he reassured. "I'll only be wearing it for the next ten minutes to make sure that we're not suspected."

"Not suspected?" I chuckled. "Won't that make you even more suspicious?"

"Not a wink. I have this theory; when things are so overt, they're –"

Rolling my eyes playfully, I pushed him out the door. "You can tell me about it later."

~.~.~.~.~.~

I could see John going up to the front door from my spot in the vehicle. Any second now they would come out, ready to go. Fake beards and all. I had to brace myself not only for hiding, but also for the absolute fear of the thing that I was sitting on. It was sputtering and making these ghastly noises; its stomach was preparing itself to swallow me whole.

My thoughts were not long dwelled upon as Watson and Holmes quickly walked my way. Sherlock was already getting stares because of his exaggerated beard. I didn't want to know what people would say when we started the… whatever it was.

Ducking my head, which thankfully blended in with the brown suitcases, I listened quietly as John got inside. "You really think no one is going to stare at us?" He mumbled, taking a firm hold of the wheel.

"Stare?" Sherlock scoffed. "Of course they're not going to stare."

"Whatever you say," Watson grumbled as the thing kicked into life. My feet were pulled up tightly to my chest and I clung onto the leather bags for dear life. Everyone around us was gawking, but the duo in the front seat tried earnestly to ignore it all. "Will your beard be with us all night?" Watson sketchily glanced at Sherlock from the opposite seat.

"I'll remove it once we're south of Trafalgar's square."

Watson angrily squeezed a strange, rubber thing on the front to warn people that they were in his way. I thought it might have been a duck, but when I peeked over the edge, it looked like a small balloon.

"If you believe Moriarty has you under observation, isn't this a _bit _conspicuous?" John was asking all the right questions. I silently agreed with the doctor's finely put theories.

"It's so _overt_…" Sherlock assured. "… it's _covert_."

A quiet grunt escaped my lips. There was no denying that.

As the two men continued their quiet conversations, I watched pathetically as the people pointed, shouted and drooled over the shiny thing we were riding in. No one seemed to take notice of me; it was the hunky thing itself that held all of their interest. Just as I was beginning to feel relaxed, it all almost fell to pieces.

"Mommy!" A little girl shouted, pointing her dirty finger directly towards me. "Is that girl stealing a ride on the robot? Why is she there? Why is she hiding?"

Flailing my hands about, but letting no words loose, I tried my hardest to silence her. When John started to speak, I had to freeze and hope for the best. "Did you hear that child?" He asked quizzically. "What do you think she's-"

"Oh! Look at that woman!" Sherlock gasped, grabbing Watson's face and facing it straight forward. "Does she not look exactly like Mary?" _Nice cover._

"Which one?" Watson's interest was totally diverted.

"That one; over there."

"The thin one in the pink? I suppose she does a little-"

"No, no, the much more robust one in the dingy, black shawl."

There was a long silence between the friends. "For someone who observes everything so perfectly well, you really have no idea what my wife looks like, do you?"

"Wife?" Sherlock snickered. "Let's not jump to conclusions."

"Trafalgar's Square," Watson sighed heavily as we passed the manmade lions. "You must be safe by now." Sherlock pulled at his beard, but his goggles still made him look funny. I quietly peered at them as their conversation floated onwards. "Why are you looking at me with such concern?" Watson asked when he noticed Sherlock's lingering eyes.

"I'm so very worried," his friend replied. "Your vitality's been drained from you." Watson's face twisted to confusion. He was going to go to a stag party! How much more vitality did you need? "Marriage is the end, I tell you!" Holmes spat angrily.

I grunted. So _that's _what was on his mind. Something about the sentence seemed to put me off.

"I think of it as the beginning," Watson defended. His knuckles gripped the wheel even tighter. Sherlock was pushing his limits, but of course he didn't realize it.

"Armageddon."

_That's a bit brash._

"Rebirth."

_Finely put, Doctor. _

"Restriction."

_Sherlock Holmes, you haven't a romantic bone in your body._

"Structure."

_John Watson, you are perfect._

"Answering to a woman!?"

I was going to crawl up and smack him.

"Being in a relationship. A life in matrimony; the possibility of a family." Sherlock's head was looking the other direction. I wondered what he was thinking about, but it was clear that he was disappointed at his loss in the argument. "Who wants to die alone?"

"Not me," I couldn't help but whisper in the silence.

"So, we'll have a good old fashioned romp tonight… you'll settle down and have a family, and I'll…" Sherlock struggled to get his words out. "…die alone."

I couldn't stand being the onlooker. "You don't have to die alone," I grumbled, burying my face further into a suitcase. "If only you would open your eyes and see me waiting for you. Imbecile."

"Yes," Watson muttered. "That's about it."

The rest of their conversation floated over my head as I inspected the area around me. We were in the back of the building already, and there wasn't another female to be seen. Men stared at me quizzically, but most said nothing. A few with bottles pressed against their lips laughed and pointed in my direction. Some inched closer to get a better look at me, but I swatted them away with my boot and encouraged them to keep their mouths shut.

Watson had stopped the car, but I did not move. I guessed Sherlock must have forgotten about me, because no one came to tell me my next move. Watson was desperately close, and I knew that I had to make a run for it before the whole plan fell to pieces. I didn't know where I would be going. I just knew that I had to get away.

Silently, I hopped down and skittered around to the back of the building. The moon was high in her position, and her beams helped me guide my way. No drunken men were there to greet me. I was plenty thankful for it.

I pressed my back against a stone wall and let a sigh escape my lips. Puffs of smoke surrounded the sky around me as my cold breath turned to mist. The trip had been a stressful one that I half considered ordering myself a glass of wine.

"Excuse me?" The cockney accent suddenly addressed towards me was not one that I recognized. I turned my head to spy a gaudy older woman staring at me with unforgiving eyes. Her bony arms seemed permanently glued to her hips and her gaze was an icy one. "What are you doing out here when you're up in twenty minutes?"

She was in charge of the entertainment. She was the mother hen to all of the 'chickies' who performed for the boys inside. I couldn't help but laugh aloud. Surely, she didn't mistake me for one of her youthful dolls. "I think you have the wrong person, ma'am."

"No, no. You're the one the he told me about." She stepped closer towards me, flicking my loose curls away from my face. "Curly, brown hair. Wears it in a bun. Doesn't like to smile that much, but is pretty when she does. I'm certain it's you."

Furiosity was bubbling up inside me. My fists clenched so tightly that my knuckles were whiter than the purest snowfall. "Holmes…" I spat out between clenched teeth.

"Yea," she grunted. "That's the guy. Now come on. You've got makeup to get into."

~.~.~.~.~

I never wondered what a performer's life might have been like behind the curtain, nor did I care. As Miss Hughes (this was my kidnapper's name) led me though a back door, I was thrust into a world of rushing girls, each in their own frill. Their hair was done up like a Queen's and their makeup sparkled under the candles. My breath escaped my body in no time. My eyes couldn't focus on one thing.

"You'll be over there in the back. Don't bother the other girls for help. They're all going on soon, but your costume is on the mannequin beside your table."

"My… my table?"

Her wrinkled finger pointed sharply towards the wooden vanity in a dimly lit corner. "That's where you'll get ready. Now, _go_." She was off just as quickly as she had come. Once again, I was left alone without a clue.

"Why didn't I just stay home?" I asked, tossing my hands into the air. It was a question that was asked many times, but never received a proper answer.

"Don't fight it, love," another cockney voice rang out in my ear. I stumbled backwards, surprised by the young girl suddenly at my side. Her rosy cheeks rose into a smile and she quickly snatched my hand. "I heard what she said, but don't worry. I can tell you're new and I'll be here to help you. I don't have to go on for another twenty minutes. We're partners tonight!" I could feel girls stomping all over the hems of my long dress, their heels rubbing dirt into the fabric, but all I could do was nod my head. She took me to the back corner and began to pull the ties on the back of my dress. "Real lovely clothes you've got here! Certainly nicer than anything I've ever worn." My clothes were not nice, but I figured a performer's life was much harder.

Though she was a woman, I couldn't help but feel flustered when she began tugging my dress down to my ankles. She put a thin blouse over my head and began to untie my corset beneath it. Her fingers flew as they pulled at the straps. She was obviously very experienced with it. "How… How often do you do this?" I couldn't help but ask. My voice was barely heard through the shouting girls and fiddle music coming from the pub area.

"Oh, every day of the week except Saturdays. Eight times a day to other girls. I have it done six times a day. I'm not nearly as important as the headline acts!" When she laughed, her small nose crinkled like a mouse. She was a very pretty girl, but I could see a tired life lingering in the bags beneath her eyes.

Once my corset was off, my hands instantly flew over my chest. My eyes snapped shut, partially from embarrassment, but partially because I didn't want to look at myself in the mirror. All I was wearing was the thin shirt she had given me along with my petticoat. "I'm not supposed to be here!" I whimpered. "I have no idea what I'm doing! My friend put me up to this, and he had no right to. _No right _at all." My voice grew louder with each irate word.

"Well, love… Don't you think that he did this for a reason? Surely he wouldn't send you to do this if he didn't think you could." Her face fell. "Unless he was a real cheeky bloke."

The mouse-girl was right. Sherlock wouldn't have drug me back here if he didn't really need me. Or, maybe he would have, but I tried to convince myself he was a better man than that. "No, you're right. I'm being irrational." I just wanted to get out of there. "Fix me up. We have to be on stage in sixteen minutes."

She clapped her hands excitingly and began to tug off the rest of my undergarments. "That's more like it! Just take it for what it is and make the most of it. My name's Lucy, by the way."

"Renadale Adkins. Lovely to meet you."

"Renadale?" The girl couldn't help but laugh. "What a funny name. Who was the chap that sent you here?"

"His name is Sherlock Holmes and he's-"

She instantly nodded her head as she began to tie on a different corset _over_ my blouse. "I've heard of him! He's a detective, isn't he? You never forget a name like Sherlock Holmes." I watched her fingers twirled up my spine, the laces twisting in and out like a dance. "Not only is he good at what he does, but his name is certainly just as unique as yours."

A smile couldn't help but reach my lips. "That's true. His personality fits it even better."

Lucy spotted my smile and her faced twisted into realization. "This Sherlock… is he someone special to you? Y'know, is he your fella?"

There was no easy way of answering. I could have said yes or no, but I didn't want to lie to the girl. I didn't want to lie to myself. Quietly, I nodded my head. "Yes," I muttered. "He's very special to me. I heard him talking about marriage today and I'm afraid that he might not feel the same." I couldn't believe I was spilling my heart to a total stranger.

Lucy uncomfortably tugged at her jet-black hair with pouted, pink lips. "You might want to figure out an answer to that. I may be a showgirl, but I know a thing or two about love. My Charlie treats me better than any other guy I've met. Every girl deserves to be as happy, no matter where she comes from."

Slowly, my eyes lifted from the ground to get a better look in the mirror. I could see my reflection staring back at me. A pale girl with her hair too tightly pinned and wearing a sparkly, purple corset. "How could he even want me to begin with?"

Lucy must not have heard me, because she roughly shoved me into the chair. "Alright, love. Put these on." She tossed me a cap full of rogue and rose-colored crepe paper. I stared at them as though they were vicious animals about to swallow me whole. "You've got to put them on!" She squeaked as she began to pull my hair out of its bun. "We haven't got much time!"

I instantly put the paper between my lips. I bit down on it, taking in the vile, rubbery taste. The second I pulled it out from my teeth, a bright red smile shimmered back at me. "Oh Lord," I breathed. I looked similar to a clown, only much more frightening.

"Don't forget the rogue!" Dabbing a bit onto my lips and above my eyes, I flickered away the powder in annoyance. It began to float in the air us, and I couldn't help sputtering in its wake. Lucy paused her braiding to give me a stern look. "You really don't know anything about makeup, do you?" I gravely shook my head. "Somehow, you made it work. It looks fine. Now, put that blue stuff above your eyes.

My fingers picked up a small glass case that held a chunky azure concoction. I literally grimaced upon the smell and sight. "Are those… berries?"

Lucy only laughed. All that mattered was that I made myself look good. Makeup was not accepted in normal society, so they had to make up their own form of makeup. Apparently, berries did the tricks. In the outside world, girls often longed to be pale, but I was not back in downtown London. Things were different. It was like a new disguise waiting to be finished.

I obediently splashed on the blue ointment above my eyes. My fingers carefully traced just above my eyelids, where the sticky stuff lingered in a smooth line. Lucy smiled as she caught a glimpse of me in the mirror. "How perfect you did! You're a quick learner, aren't you?" Her little fingers snatched a long, white feather from a nearby table. "We've just got a few more steps and you'll be ready to go."

I couldn't look at myself any longer, so I shut my eyes as she stuck the final piece into my head. My head was throbbing because of how tightly my hair was pinned, but I didn't have time to complain. Lucy shoved me behind a changing board and tossed over my last pieces: white tights and frilly bottoms that came to the knee.

Oh, no, no, no. I was not going to be wearing that.

"Lucy?" I laughed to cover up my fear. "You can't seriously expect me to wear this, right?" I did not receive a reply. She was off finishing her own makeup. My eyes flickered shut. _Just do it, Renadale. No one will recognize you. Sherlock must have a good reason for you to be doing this, or else you wouldn't be there._

That was enough motivation for me. I quietly pulled the tights up to my waist and tossed the bottoms over them. The lacey pants were itching away at my skin, and it was hard for me not to scratch at them. There was just one thing missing.

"Oh, here!" Lucy's voice sang from the other side of the panel. "I almost forgot!" I literally had to duck to avoid the lilac heels that were suddenly tossed over the edge. Clapping them tightly around my feet, I stumbled out from behind.

Lucy waited with a couple of other girls and I was greeted with numerous whoops and cheers. Nothing about my face matched the excitement in theirs. I felt like a doll. I was completely exposed. "I hate this," I groaned pathetically.

"Well, you don't have time to hate it." Lucy smirked. "You've got to go on with me in ten seconds."

"_Ten seconds_?" I nearly screamed. My fingers clasped over my mouth and when I pulled them away, red kisses were left on my palms. My heart was racing like mad. Polka music ceased to stop ringing in my ears, but I had to stay focused. I had to keep calm and act like I knew what I was doing.

Even though I didn't have a clue.

"What are you doing?" A girl's shrilly voice shouted into my head. "You're up next! It's your turn!" I could hear her complaints, but nothing was motivating me to move. I hardly ever faced society, and now that I finally was, I was going to make myself look like a fool. "Go!"

Just before she shoved me, I caught one more look at myself in a nearby mirror. I wasn't wearing any proper bottoms, only skin-hugging, white tights. My legs were thin and lean, but I wasn't exactly motivated to show them off so much. Just above them, a glitzy, purple corset that displayed even more of my bodice pinched my torso. My makeup could be seen from ten miles away, along with my ridiculous feathery hairdo.

How did I even get myself into this one? I had been in messes before, but none quite so extreme. I much preferred my newsboy cap.

I didn't have too much time to think before someone roughly shoved me from behind the curtains. The cheery faces of drunken men welcomed me with lust as I stumbled over my heels and onto the wooden stage.

Their anxious eyes were looking me over as their arms raised their glasses to the sky.

Knowing the punishments, I forced a glowing smile. With a flick of my arm above my head and a bow, I was no longer Renadale Adkins.

I was a star.

My other two companions came out shortly after me and sat on top of the long swing situated above the catwalk. Thankfully, everyone's eyes were on them. I didn't have a clue what to do. My hands were moving this way and that, as if I were some strange, gypsy dancer. It didn't match the music at all, but I was just thankful that no one was watching me.

"Hey, you! Don't forget your fans!" Someone hissed off stage. I turned to see a pile of pink feathers come flying at me. Not wanting to look stupid, I ran to catch them in my arms. My whole body was trapped in the soft fabric. _What am I supposed to do with these?!_ I screamed to myself. They were two massive accessories, so I decided that one was to go in each hand.

And I would just wave them around.

That's what people did with fans, right?

Lucy and another girl were now swinging to amazing heights and the men were screaming and gasping in amazement. I was merely for background effect, but I did my job the best I could and waved the fans around like a wizard.

Meanwhile, my eyes never stopped searching. _Sherlock, where are you? You didn't just leave me here, did you? This isn't some penniless maid shelter, is it? _

Just when I was beginning to fear the worst, I spotted my friends straight ahead. I almost cried after them in excitement, but I remembered who I was. A performer. Forcing another fake smile and ignoring the calls from surrounding men, I tried to focus in on their conversation.

Sherlock was standing and his glass was raised. He was giving Watson a toast, but the receiver looked far from pleased. Sherlock's eyes were scanning the crowd for someone…

Me?

My heart dropped into my stomach. What if he was looking for me? Wanting him to get a better view, I decided to be completely idiotic. My hands tossed the fans aside and I ran forward on the platform. No one was expecting this, particularly not Lucy or the girls backstage. My heels were overbearing, so I tore them off and tossed them to a nearby onlooker. He shouted happily and raised them as though he had won pure gold. I rolled my eyes and made my way forward.

"Renadale!" Lucy shouted out to me, trying to keep her smile on the entire time. "What are you doing? You're supposed to be waving your fans!" I barely caught her words as she swung past me in a blur.

"Don't worry about it," I muttered with a fake smile. "I've got it all under control." I made my way up to the end of the platform and flicked my arms dramatically above my head. The men loved it for some reason, but all I cared about was that I was close enough now to read my friends lips.

"Who is it you're looking for?" John asked with clear aggression on his face. He had not seen me yet.

Sherlock, however, had. His eyes met mine for a brief second before they tore away. I felt a sick feeling arise in my stomach. He didn't even care that I was there. He really had tossed me to the dogs without so much as a 'thank you'.

But, then he caught my eyes for a second time. And this time, his gaze was much more intimate. He blinked slowly as though he wanted to make sure that he was actually seeing what his mind perceived. My chest was heaving from lack of air, and I knew I looked ridiculous, but I couldn't tear my eyes away. His head slowly began to fall to one shoulder, as if in wonderment. Despite his struggle, his eyes swiftly glanced from my bare feet to my feathery head. The expression on his face was at first unreadable, but it slowly morphed into a smile. It didn't hold laughter, or satisfaction. It was barely there for me to notice.

My job was done successfully. I just didn't know what my job was.

Sherlock had to go back to comforting Watson, though it seemed a struggle for him to look away from me. The news was obviously out that Watson's party had been a scam, and John was not taking it lightly. He was going on about his disappoint as Sherlock silently chugged the rest of his drink. I could tell he felt bad, but it didn't last very long. That was the way it was with Sherlock Holmes. And though John often forgave him, tonight he wasn't as considerate. I watched as he silently ripped money and a cigar away from Holmes and stomped off to the gaming tables.

"Renadale!" Lucy called from behind me. She was off of the swing now, and tugging me backstage. "Our turn is up. Let's go."

"No, that's quite alright." I pulled her off from me. "I'm going to go out into the crowds for a moment to see my friends."

"What?" She looked horrified. "But, Miss Hughes-"

"Is not my boss," I smiled. "_That's_ my boss, and he needs me to go to him." I pointed out Sherlock in the crowd. She seemed distraught, but eventually Lucy gave me the nudge to continue on. She was a sweet girl, and I thanked her kindly for her help. Her lifestyle was just not right for me, and I hopped from the stage with plans to never return.

Sherlock hadn't noticed that I wound up right beside him. He looked dismal and grave. He may have pushed by me without recognition if I hadn't spoken up. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Renadale!" He jumped and turned to face me. His eyes didn't even meet mine; they were too drawn to my kitschy outfit. "You look…"

"I honestly don't want to know." I grabbed his sleeve in my hand. "We should go upstairs and talk."

"You see, I don't think now is the best time for-"

"No, no. It is _certainly_ the best time." I needed more answers. I needed to get my own thoughts out to someone. It was time that Sherlock saw me as a companion and partner and not just someone who helped when she was needed.

We made our way up a rickety, wooden staircase, shoving past elegantly dressed men and their boisterous friends. A few of them tipped their hats towards me and eyed me far too closely, but I turned my face away and kept walking.

On the higher levels there were more elegant people. Some of the richer men mingled with the poorer down below, but most liked to dine and watch the entertainment above. Some even had their wives, or perhaps mistresses with them. I could see a few of them peek their heads out from their booths to send me a stare full of judgment. _Why isn't she on stage swinging? _Their droopy lips asked without moving. I ignored them and pulled Sherlock into an empty table.

If you wanted things to be private, there was a curtain that blockaded the view. Once we were inside, I drew back the fabric to keep us hidden. There was a circular booth beside us, but I didn't allow Sherlock to sit down. Our bodies were so close that I could feel the heat streaming off from him and smell the alcohol on his lips. "I want to know what's going on," I whispered behind my red lips. "No steering around the truth. No hiding facts from me that might put a tear in my eye. You are going to explain everything to me, right now, as it is."

Sherlock watched me speak with heated passion. It was only after my monologue that he finally spoke up, and I was grateful for the lack of interruption. "You're making my plans a bit risky by holding me up, but I'll explain this quickly." I gave him some room to breathe by sitting down. He placed his hands on the table and stared at the wall ahead; business mode. "You know that letter you took? From Irene?"

"I wouldn't forget such a thing."

"Well, that letter was a key factor in figuring out who the next target was. The letter was written by a Frenchman named Rene Heron. The note, as it still remains, is intended for his sister." Sherlock pulled the folded paper from his pocket.

"What does the letter say?" My French was still not on par with Sherlock's.

"It tells the girl to remember him as he was. It is affectionately written; the two were very close."

"If it's a letter from a brother to a sister, a mere note of affection, then what made it so important? Why did Moriarty want it taken away from her?" His name on my tongue felt like a poison. I hated it being that way. I _hated_ it.

Sherlock smiled and shoved the note back into his pocket. "Because he didn't want her to know something was wrong. If she knew her brother was in danger, she would have gone after him. And there is a specific expression that goes without saying…"

"No loose ends," I muttered. "Yes, I know of it." Tired and drained, I rested my arms on the table and placed my chin in the crook of them. Sherlock peered down at me with a tinge of sadness; I could tell he felt bad about everything.

"I didn't mean to harbor any information. There was little time to explain."

I shook my feathery head. "You didn't need to explain. I would have followed you to the ends of the Earth if you would have asked me to." My voice was soft, but true. I would have followed him wherever he want, if he wanted me. If he didn't care for me and asked me to leave, I would have done that too. Though I was proud of myself, I was obedient to him. He had given me so much; I felt like I owed him that.

Sherlock slid into the seat across from me. He mimicked my position and stared back at me with his head on the table. We stayed like that for a while until I felt self-conscious under his chocolate gaze. "Is she here?" My face turned to the curtain. "Are you going to give her the letter?"

"Yes, and I'm going to stop her death from happening." His voice was as low as mine.

"Right," I laughed darkly. "That's important as well." The girl could have been Lucy for all I knew, but it was imperative that we saved her. She must not have known what trouble she was in if Sherlock had to come to her aid. "You should go. Time is precious and I'm wasting yours."

Sherlock sat up a bit straighter as his brow rose to the top of his forehead. "Wasting my time? No, Miss Adkins. I should have told you all of this from the beginning, but I'm terrible at thinking of how others feel. I believe I was the one who neglected your time."

All I could do was grunt in agreement.

"I'll be waiting here for you," I answered. "If something goes astray, I'll help you as much as I possibly can. Meanwhile, I'll make sure John's old gambling habits don't return."

Sherlock nodded his head slowly. That was all that could be done. I wished, for everyone's sake, that things went effortlessly. A part of me could feel that something was off balance. I could hear the drunken claps and coins spilling onto gambling tables down below. My eyes shut as I let the hum of the violins rush to my ears. There was a murder being planned that very second, and we were just sitting there. "Go," I mumbled with my eyes still shut. "Save her."

Something soft brushed against my cheek. My eyes snapped open in surprise and I watched as Sherlock slid his fingers from my ear down to my lips. His mouth didn't move. He didn't say a word as he looked at my colorful face. There was a secret lingering behind his eyes; one that he wasn't telling me. Gently, in fear of him pulling away, I kissed his fingers as they trailed over my lips. It was a brief moment, and before I knew it he had slid out from behind the booth and was gone.

Something wasn't right. I couldn't help but wonder if Irene was okay, or if Watson had truly beaten his feelings. Maybe he didn't believe that he could save this girl, whoever she was.

Yet, I knew that he could. Professor James Moriarty was nothing compared to him. I could see that now. He was Sherlock Holmes: my true hero.

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**Erm, okay. So, I actually didn't even get to the part that I wanted to get to in this chapter. There was too much that I didn't realize needed to happen, so I'm making this a double chapter. (: This ended up being 17 pages, the longest I've written… maybe ever. So, I hoped you enjoyed it, even though it might have been blasé. **

**BUT, PLEAAASSSEEE REVIEW! I REALLY want to know what you think of everything. Like, A LOT more than normal. So, if you could do me the ever-so-kind favor of leaving a message, it would bring joy into my heart and make me post the next chapter faster.**

**Danke. **


	5. Orange

**This chapter is dedicated to ****Shiori92** **for being such a helpful and loyal fan. I suppose I'm like Sherlock and you are Watson. Sometimes you had to point things out to me for me to realize their importance/stupidity. ^^ You have all my thanks, along with everyone else who has stuck with me this far. **

**FormofJane: Crepe paper was used as a lipstick. I think 'teeth' was a bad vocabulary decision on my part. Thanks for asking though! (:**

**I also saw a TON of new reviewers this time around! I HOPE TO SEE YOUR LOVELY NAMES AGAIN? :3 please?**

**Renadale and I appreciate it more than you could possibly know!**

**PLEASE REVIEW & FAV (: **

**~Mistro~**

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

There was overwhelming feeling of insecurity that lied within me. Showing my practically bare legs to Sherlock Holmes tested that boundary quite enough for one day, but when I was suddenly left alone in the pub, I knew that my worries were at their peak.

Somehow, I had to come out of the booth. If someone were to walk in, surely I would startle him or her in my attire. If I _were_ to walk out, everyone's eyes might turn to me.

That was the last thing I wanted.

The only thing I could think of to do was to quietly slink down a nearby hallway. There was a curtain next to the gypsy's booth that would allow me to go unnoticed. I would also be close to Sherlock in case anything happened in which he needed my help.

Not that I would be of much use anyway.

My trembling fingers pulled back the red velvet to grant me a better view. I could see no one on the second floor balcony. Everyone was enjoying their night and had no concern for me. The performers on stage had already forgotten about my presence and the men surrounding them had surely done the same. It was the opportune moment and I took it with satisfaction.

My bare feet waddled softly towards the entrance, and in seconds I was hiding behind the blue curtain. I allowed myself to breathe a sigh of relief as I tiredly pulled the feather from my head. Its white fuzz tickled my hand as it twiddled it between my fingers.

A memory began to trickle into my mind, the silence keeping it from going away. The more I tried to fight it off, the longer it lingered. My mind was lost to those handsome eyes.

~.~.~.~.~.~

"_Renadale, what exactly are you trying to achieve?" Thomas's fists were dug deeply in his pockets as he smiled bemusedly at the peaceful, young girl. She glanced up at him with a peeved expression before turning back to her knots. _

"_Father said it was good practice," she muttered. She couldn't help but feel rattled every time he spoke her name. It was the first time anyone besides her father had said it with affection. And he was so charming that it was difficult to believe his sincerity. "Knots can come in handy when you least expect it."_

_Thomas only laughed as he sat beside her in the tent. She felt deeply wrong with the situation. They were alone and no one was nearby to keep an eye on them. He was so close that he could have kissed her if he wanted to. _Not that he wants to, _she thought with embarrassment._

"_Your fingers are too tense. In fact, I think you're focused _too_ much." He quietly took the knot from her fingers and began to finish it. She wasn't bothered by this intrusion. She enjoyed watching him work. He taught her with silence. "It's a simple knot, really. A sailor's first lesson."_

"_Well, I'm not a sailor. Am I?" She couldn't resist a small smile._

"_No, you are not." His teeth were perfectly white as he grinned. An American's teeth. "I'm very glad of it. If you were, I might not have been able to see your lovely face as often as I have." _

"_It has only been a couple of weeks."_

"_A day would suffice if it meant spending it with you."_

_Renadale did not take the compliment well. Feeling hot and under pressure, she struggled to stand up from the ground. Thomas watched her with scrunched brows, curious as to where she was headed. "I have to go and do… research."_

"_Research?" Thomas laughed with his charming, deep chuckle. "We haven't found anything yet."_

"_Yes, I know." Her words struggled to come from her mouth. She shut her eyes in clear frustration, trying to distract herself from his perfectly smooth skin. He was pale from the New York lifestyle, but that only made his dark complexions more desirable. "That's why it is called 'research'. I haven't found an answer yet."_

"_Wait." A soft hand found itself on her exposed arm. She cursed herself for wearing a short-sleeved dress. She rarely did it, and now that she did, he just _had _to touch her. "I wanted to give this to you."_

_She slowly turned to face him, her curiosity always getting the better of her. Her eyes caught sight of the profoundingly orange feather that he was wielding towards her. Her fingers snatched it up quickly from his hands as the words could barely fall from her mouth. "Is this from a Golden Pheasant?" _

"_I heard you speaking to your father. You had mentioned that they were your favorite, and I just couldn't help myself. I had collected some samples when I was in Norfolk some months ago." He watched as she played with the feather in her fingers. They moved over the material so lightly, as though she would break it with a single squeeze. "Do you like it?"_

"_Oh, Mister Smith. How could I not?" Her head shook in bewilderment. "My father will be ecstatic when he hears you have one. He has always loved the oriental bird."_

"_Yes, he does enjoy his nature." Thomas once again dug his fists into his pockets. He was content that he had put that sparkle in her eye. Something about the girl was different. She wasn't like the talkative, showy girls he was used to back home. Sure, he loved those women, but Renadale Adkins was a breed all her own. She was getting the better of him; a man that people swore would never be flustered by a woman. "Renadale, perhaps we should go set up for dinner. The team will be back tonight and I'm sure they'll want a hearty meal."_

"_Oh, right!" Her cheeks returned back to their normal pink as she carefully tucked the feather into her keepsake box. "They'll certainly be hungry." She shuffled out of the tent, leaving Thomas alone._

_He glanced around her tent, staring at her rumpled sheets and her tossed pillow. She did not have much else: a book, her box, and some research materials. There was a small journal that his fingers itched to pick up, but he would not do that to her._

_He was astounded with himself. Since when did he care about a woman's private thoughts? He could see when a woman wanted him from miles away. But what about her? She was always flustered. How could he possibly know if it was because of him or not?_

"_Stop it," he cursed to himself. "Stop letting her get the better of you. You're Thomas Smith, for God's sake." Even his words were not convincing enough. She had captivated him and he was too deeply interested to walk away. He cursed himself once more before joining Renadale outside._

~.~.~.~.~

My mouth literally began to taste bad after the memory left my head. My body let out a visible shudder at the thought of Thomas. I had wanted to kiss him so badly back then, to have him be my first, and yet I had just gotten my old desire a few weeks ago. Irony had no issue coming into my life.

My back rested against the wooden wall as the tight corset ordered me not to breathe. At least my hair tumbled down to my shoulders, making me feel slightly relaxed. It was also a way to shield my face from any unwanted onlookers. Even though I was alone, it was as if there were eyes all around me.

My thoughts then drifted to what was happening inside of the fortune room. Who was in there with Sherlock? What did she look like? Perhaps she was beautiful. I almost peeked my head inside, but something else caught my attention. A loud banging. Grunts. A cry.

_Was that the sound of someone fighting? Had the murderer already come into view?_

A large lump began to rise in my throat. I didn't have time to question myself or prepare for what was going to happen next. Straight in front of me, a small man tumbled to the ground between the curtains. I jumped back in shock, letting out an audible scream as I tried to kick him away. Other men and women were just coming down the hallway, but dashed out at the first view of the Cossack.

"That's _definitely _not a gypsy girl!" I cried wearily.

The man's eyes cracked open at the sound of my voice. He ripped of his jacket and tossed it aside, jumping onto his feet without the help of his hands. I wanted to pin him to the ground, but I could not find the stamina or the energy. He was gone just as quickly as he had come.

I scrambled to my knees as I scooped up the vest of knives he had left behind. The weapons were a threat to my unstable hands, but I kept them close nonetheless. If _he_ didn't have them, that was all the better. "What am I going to do now?" I muttered as I stared down at the sparkling metal.

Sherlock quickly retreated from outside of the curtain. His eyes caught mine with surprise. I could read them as clear as day. _What the hell are you doing here? _No proper answer came into my mind. The woman beside me held my entire captivation. Her long hair plummeted in curls similar to mine. It was like a waterfall on her head, and I could not help but be jealous by her stunning features and sharp cheekbones. She must have caught me staring, because before I knew it, her strong hands pinned me to the wall.

"Who are you?" She shouted, snatching the knives from my hand. "Are you working for him?"

Sherlock tugged her off, trying to calm her down. "She's with me! She's not supposed to be here. This is not our main concern."

"Right," the girl spat. Her eyes were still suspicious. I knew she was probably just frightened. However, with her sudden invasion onto my body, I felt a bit more harassed than she did. "Let's go before he gets away." The two rushed down the hall without another word.

The squeaky notes of Irish fiddles rang all around the pub. The song was 'The Congress Reel' and the blissful notes did not seem to fit the present situation. I could hear people shouting, glasses breaking, and money falling all at once. No doors were open for me. There were no clear arrows telling me where to go next. Somehow, I would just have to go with the tide.

Most of my life felt like that.

My bare feet carried me down the balcony hall. Men and women were charging towards the stairs to get away from the Cossack, but I was trying to move against the current. The lonely fish travelling past the crowd. That was how I had always been, hadn't it?

When I finally reached the end of the hall, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. I looked bewilderingly at the girl, but her eyes were only fixated on a nearby window.

_The window?_

"Sherlock!" I shouted as I peered over the edge. He was at the very bottom, getting pulled at by a bunch of gamblers. Who knew what was in store for him? "You idiot! You just had to get us into another mess, didn't you?" I could feel the girl standing directly behind me. Her eyes were drilling into my face: inspecting me, judging me, sizing me up. I could no return her look. She was far too intimidating.

And Sherlock's present situation was _much_ more alluring.

It was just like the boxing arena. Men were cheering and getting ready for a fight. My stomach felt weak just thinking about him getting hurt, but I knew he could handle himself. He could easily fight that acrobat with his bare hands.

Except, he tossed a chicken towards the Cossack. No one expected it, but it allowed for Sherlock to get away from the fight without a cut. "Your friend is a foolish man," the gypsy muttered in my ear.

I turned to mirror her frown. "Might I ask who makes this declaration?"

"I am Madame Simza." Genuinely, I was surprised she told me. "Now, you will answer my question. Why is your friend protecting me?"

Red hair. Short body. Fat face. James Moriarty was creeping into my mind like an unwanted disease. I missed the days where he was a glowing hero. "Because…" I said softly. "The man who sent that murderer to kill you must be stopped."

"If he knows that your detective friend saved me, he will come after you." Her eyes were as dark as night and shook me to the core. "Do you really want that?"

"We've had people came after us before. This time certainly won't be any different." Somehow, I had trouble believing my own words. There was antipathy on her face as she looked at me, but it could not be helped. I wasn't there to make friends and neither was she. We both had our business prospects.

"Keep telling yourself that," she said before turning away. "It might just save your lives."

She began to dash down the hallway once again. It didn't take long for me to realize that Holmes and the Cossack were back inside. Simza wasn't wasting a minute for an opportunity to fight the man that tried to take her life. My lips pouted a bit in jealousy. She had all the stamina that I had ever wished for.

"No point in standing here," I muttered and made my way back onto the balcony. It was easy to follow the gypsy with her bright orange skirt, and I shoved past more frightened guests to follow her bread trail. The acrobat was on the balcony above us; his feet were so light that they could not be mistaken for Sherlock's.

I kept yelling at myself in my head. _Where is Holmes? What makes you think you can fight this man? Why are you following the gypsy in the first place? _But I did not have the fitting answers.

Simza and the Cossack had both entered the backstage area. My feet flew me down the steps, but I could not make my way into the circle to help her. She was tossing her knives towards him, but he ended up getting the better of her with a sharp jab to the nose. My whole body ached to go and help, but my determination was rudely interrupted. A sharp shove came to my shoulder. I grabbed it in surprise, but was forced to look ahead as I saw Sherlock rushing past me. With Sherlock and the gypsy woman, things would be taken care of in no time. The only thing of value that I possessed was my jeweled corset.

Sherlock's foot gave the Cossack a firm shove until he tumbled from a nearby window and into the Thames. I wanted to raise my hands in applause, but decided it was probably not the proper time.

"Hey!"

The interrupting voice took us all by surprise. "John..." I groaned when I saw him peek his head from behind the curtain. He was as drunk as a man could be, and his face was swelling up from a fight downstairs. All I could do was think of how Mary would feel when he turned up at their wedding looking like he just came back from his war days.

"You can run, but you can't… Where's you?" His words were slurred as he stumbled onto the wooden floor. Sherlock's eyes were full of amusement at the foggy state of his friend, and Simza was too preoccupied with her bleeding nose to have any concern for the pitiable doctor.

"John Watson," I sighed. "What have you been up to?"

He spread out his arms as though it was obvious. "Just had a fight!" His legs crossed lazily over the other until his whole body got the better of him. We all watched with wide eyes as he tumbled into a pile of stage lights. Sherlock and I both jumped forward to help him, but he was adamant that we stay away. "Just had a fight!" He repeated, pointing an angry finger in Sherlock's face. "Where were _you_?"

My motherly instincts got the better of me as I kneeled to hold him up in my arms. His bloodshot eyes met mine with perplexity, and it was then that I realized he did not yet know of my presence. "Renadale…?" His voice was a harsh whisper. "What are you doing here?"

"Helping you, apparently." I couldn't help but manage a laugh, despite his swelling face. "I'll explain it all when you have your proper mind back. You've made _quite _a mess of yourself."

He let out a groan and abandoned his head to my shoulder. All of his money was gone, his friend had forgotten about his stag party, and he was getting married the next day. I certainly didn't blame him for his pessimistic state of mind. "I should have known something would be…" He struggled to find the words as his eyes rolled sluggishly around the room.

It was all I could do to hold back my laughter. "I would recommend that you don't talk right now."

"I'm glad to see you taking your best man duties so seriously."

All of us craned our necks to the stairway, where Mycroft stood with a filled champagne glass. Carruthers stood naturally beside him. It was like they were at a show; clearly we were as amusing as any comedic play.

"I was on my own!" Watson screamed as he fell from my arms. He laid on his flat back, shouting up at the sky in ferocity. "Not gonna get _my_ monies!" Trying to hold my laughter back was too much of a struggle, and I fell against the stage in giggles. "She was biting my leg!" He continued in aggravation.

Sherlock's arm folded over his mouth to hide his smile. Mycroft was less than pleased with the scene, being the mature older brother. "I'll have Carruthers put some fuel into that motor carriage of yours." Mycroft's voice was loud and firm. "You_ do _have a wedding to attend."

"Oh, I'll drive!" John's head peeked up excitedly from the floor. Another burst of laughter escaped my lips. It was contagious, even though I knew I wasn't helping the situation. John ended up cackling right alongside me. "Honk, honk!" He motioned squeezing the vehicle's horn, sending us off into another whirlwind of laughter. "See? Rena thinks it's a good idea!"

"Don't toss me into the mix!" I had to wait until I was done laughing to finally speak up. "You driving is a very _bad_ idea." Sherlock and I locked eyes with mutual smiles.

"Do you think Mary will be okay with me looking like this?" John gestured towards his features. "She always had a thing for rugged men."

"John, you must stop talking nonsense, as much as I like it." My hands scooped up his torso. He fell onto me again without warning, too drunk to have any control of his reflexes. "Let's get you into the carriage before anyone tells her what you've been up to."

"Oh, let her find out," he grumbled. "It's not like I can hide the marks on my face."

I snatched a nearby cologne bottle from a backstage table. With one pump, I sprayed a lavender mist into his ruddy face. He coughed and batted away the smell, but it was impossible to get completely away. "No," I smiled. "But at least we can hide the smell."

~.~.~.~.~

The vehicle was pumping its way along as the night sky began to dwindle and the sun began greet us. John was fast asleep in the back, snoring as much as Gladstone. We had only been driving for ten minutes and the sound of the car and guttural noises were already getting to my head.

Sherlock's mind was deep in thought as I distracted myself by reading the gypsy's letter. It was addressed to Miss Simza Heron, Providence Warf, London E.C. My French was still nonexistent, but the sketching of the boy was more than enough to hold my interest.

"So, what do you think?" Sherlock's head turned towards me briefly as I began to tuck the letter back inside of its package.

"I think you should have given it back to her."

"She forgot it," he mumbled. "Someone had to take it." I tucked it back inside his coat pocket and turned my eyes back onto the road. The sky was an astounding shade of orange. I couldn't help but be reminded of some other possessions matching the shade.

Simza's skirt.

Thomas's feather.

Even Moriarty's hair.

Only, it was much more picturesque than those things. The sun was there for me every day if I wished to see it. But at that precise moment, its effect was astounding. It drew me in and sucked all of the breath from my lungs. "Amazing sunrise, is it not?" Sherlock's soft tone filled my ears.

"It is a perfect day for a wedding," I said with a smile. "Clear as clear can be."

Sherlock only grumbled a minor response. My head turned towards him to tease, but he was not in the mood for wittiness. Even though he had gotten rid of a murderer, and was one step closer to Moriarty, Watson's wedding could not be avoided. His whole body wore a halo of anxiety. "You're upset."

"I'm not upset." His fingers scratched his face, but I knew it was to hide the lie in his eyes. "What would I have to be upset about?" Sherlock Holmes was not worth arguing with. He did not need to be more upset than he was, and I happily left him alone in his misery.

My eyes could not seem to peel away from him, however. We were sitting closely together in the front seat, and I could spot a cut on his left cheek. It was dripping dried blood and would no doubt leave a scar. Bitter reminders of the cuts he received in the sewer paraded back into my mind. "Sherlock, you're hurt."

"So is John," he scoffed. "He'll manage."

"It's not painful?" Sherlock's lips were a tight line. He did not want to be pampered by a woman. He was Sherlock Holmes. Of course it wasn't bothersome. "At least let me clean it up a bit." I went to reach for his face, but his hand grasped my wrist before I even grazed his skin.

"Leave it." His response was as sharp as the Cossack's knives. "I'm fine."

He had not been hostile with me for quite some time. My cheeks were probably as bright as the morning sky when he pushed me away. I thought we had moved past those days. "You're _not_ fine." His voice may have been like a dagger, but mine would be a razor. "You push people away when they try to help you. Frustration is written all over your face and yet you insist on being alone." Sherlock slowly began to take his foot off of the fuel. His jaw was open in slight shock, but he wasn't about to say anything convincing. "I'm tired to not understanding you. I've tried for so long and you never tell me if I'm doing it right." My anger dissipated into feeble cursing. Clearly, my words were enough to stir him from his gloominess.

"I do not deny your statements." His shoulders dropped to a state of relaxation, but the fire would never leave his eyes. "Everything you have said or known about me is true, but the reasoning behind my attitudes are difficult to explain."

"You don't need to help me anymore. I understand what the letter is saying. This boy, Rene, is Simza's brother. He must have done something for Moriarty, or is _going_ to do something for him, and that is why they tried to kill his sister." All of my words were rushed beneath my breath as I turned my face away from him. Perhaps I was acting like a child, but that was only because it was reciprocated. "I'm up to scale with you now. Don't worry; you don't have to teach the imbecilic Renadale of your upcoming plans."

"You're the furthest thing from an imbecile, Renadale." Sherlock's brows creased together. "Don't degrade yourself in that way."

"Why not?" I scoffed. "I've proven myself to be worthless."

"Oh, yes! You're worthless because you saved me from a bullet." His fingers instantly reached towards the top of my blouse, pulling down the left shoulder. I gasped in shock at his forwardness, but was unable to speak as I stared at the hideous scar beneath it.

I could not hide the hurt lingering in my face. My skin was warped beneath my clothes. It wasn't a huge wound, a bit bigger than a shilling, but it was enough to make any grown man shudder. I could not seem to take my eyes away from it. I had avoided its sight for so long and now it was suddenly smiling into my face. "What a pretty sight…" I laughed darkly. "Quite an ugly thing, isn't it?"

"Every day I wake up and I think of that scar." His voice was quiet as we turned down a country road outside of the city. The scene was beautiful with the sunrise, but Sherlock's words moved me even more. "I think of how I could have stopped it. I could have stopped it with my own heart, but you took it for me. There is nothing hideous about it." His face refused to turn towards me. "There is nothing hideous about _any_ part of you."

I tried so hard to hold onto my conviction, but it just would not stay. Comforted tears threatened to fall, so I had to turn away from him once more. "Don't make me seem like a hero. You know very well that I would do the same thing if the situation presented itself again."

"Which is why you are not _ever_ to be deemed as worthless."

"Do you keep me in gratitude? Because if that is the case, then I would much rather-"

"I do not _keep _you. I want you here because…" His voice trailed off with a shake of his head. "It doesn't matter. You are not worthless. You are…" Now it was time for me to watch him. His struggle was always a sign of something affectionate accidentally slipping out, and I waited on the edge of my seat in anticipation. It was like waiting for Tristen to find Isolde in the woods. "Everything."

Everything?

"Renadale Adkins, you are _everything_." His face was literally wincing in pain as he forced the words to fall from his lips. "You are the birds. You are the flowers. You are the trees." I couldn't help but smile at his pathetic attempt to be romantic. I could not stay mad at him. He could not be upset with me, either. We were too weak around the other, toying with the other's hearts without even knowing it. I was afraid, but I once again reached for his face. This time he let me and his words stopped.

My fingers pulled at the handkerchief in his breast pocket, and I quietly began to rub the blood away from his wound. It had been there for a while and was difficult to scrub off, but after a minute it looked very much improved. The bloody handkerchief was of little use and I let it go in the wind. It tumbled on the ground for a moment before being picked up by a morning breeze.

My body was cold against the gusts. My clothes were not exactly proper attire, and I tried to hide my shivers the best that I could. Watson was cuddled under a blanket, sound asleep. I was jealous of his wooly protector. Even if Gladstone were there to lick his face, he would not have moved an inch. Sleep was his bride then.

"Take my jacket."

"What?"

"You're shivering. Take my jacket." He began to shrug it off, meanwhile keeping one hand on the wheel. When he finally tossed it in my direction, I stared down at it as though it were some foreign beetle. "Renadale, don't pretend that you're not cold."

"I am cold, but now _you_ shall be." I gently placed the jacket back on his lap. He did not appreciate this, and once again returned it into my arms. My body was horribly dressed. That was something I could not hide from Sherlock's deductions. The jacket was too big for me as I slipped it on, but it was warm beyond compare. The smell of him was all over it. Just thinking about it being on his body was enough to make my blood pump. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock only smiled slightly before continuing down a dirt path. He was still dressed smartly and warmly, but surely he had to be a little cold?

Centimeter by centimeter, I began to make my way closer towards him. I think he noticed after a while, but I did not stop my movements. His eyes were curiously peering over at me through the corners of their viewpoints. I did not hesitate to place my head onto his shoulder. My side was pushed against his, our body heat rebounding off of one another. His chapped lips let out a shaky sigh. Whether it was from nerves or irritation, I could not be certain.

My arm slowly wrapped itself underneath his, and I pulled his sleeve towards me. There was no fighting on his part. My eyelids were beginning to drop as the cawing of the morning doves began to lull me to rest. Sleep was wrapping me in her soft blanket, and I welcomed her with open arms. She hardly ever came to visit me. I often looked for her in the middle of the night, only to get a reply of rattling winds along my windowpane.

Just as my dreams were about to overtake me, I felt something soft upon my hair. At first it was a hand: hesitant and distant. It was almost afraid to touch me in fear of offense. I did not move. I did not breathe. All I could see was orange and red from behind my sealed eyes; flaming up like my emotions. "I have always been pleased when you have your hair down."

The smile on my lips could not be repressed. Gaiety flourished inside of me. She burned away the dusty fears, the rickety nerves and replaced them with blossoms of hope. With every affectionate word he uttered, I found myself tumbling more and more into his arms.

The next feeling was a pair of lips, gently kissing my curls. Slowly, my fingers curled around his, feeling his cold skin against mine. I wanted to kiss his hand and lips until the morning sun was completely up. I wanted to enfold my arms around him and swear to never let go.

Who knew how many more moments like that I had left? Things would change very soon. The closer the Professor got, the more trouble we would find ourselves in. At that moment, I let the future stay in its place. I could only focus on the fingers tangled up in mine. I could sleep peacefully.

If only for a little while.

~.~.~.~.~

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**Write something.**

**Now.**

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	6. Head Full of Secrets

**Woah! Woah! Woah! I was NOT expecting that many reviews. HEY. I'M NOT COMPLAINING. :3 Thank you all SO much for the brilliant messages. You make my day. You light up my life. You make my heart flutter.**

**Akatsuki: Yes! Write your own! And let me know if and when you do, so I can be sure to read it!**

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**I wish there was something I could do for y'all. You're just so nice and your dedication means the world to me. IS there something I can do? If anyone has a suggestion, let me know. I haven't the slightest idea. I feel like updating chapters just isn't enough for all the kindness you're giving me. XD**

**MUCH LOVE**

**~Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~**

_Is that… Bagpipes? _

The awful sound of a cat dying rang out into my ears after what was becoming a peaceful sleep. My head was no longer on Sherlock's arm. My loose curls were being used a pillow as my body spread across the front seat. The Scottish instrument halted any chance of dreams that I had. The damn thing.

"Who even invented that?" I grumbled, placing an arm over my face to block out the sunlight. "It's ugly looking and it sounds horrible."

"Come, come, Renadale." Sherlock's voice muttered in my ear. I could feel his strong grip on my arms as he attempted to haul me up. I was not moving. Not when sleep was so close in my reach. "You're not a morning person are you?" My eyes peeked through a crack in my fingers. They must have flashed to red, because Sherlock took a hesitant step back at my gaze. "Aha! I'll take that as a _no_."

I could see John stumbling his way towards the church. He looked like the walking dead, and I knew that when I got out, I wouldn't look any better. Especially because I basically wasn't wearing any clothes. "I'll get up," I sighed as my body shifted into an upright position. "But you're not getting back your coat."

"I didn't expect to." Sherlock cracked a quick grin before offering me his hand. A sour frown was the only 'thank you' I could manage. Of course, I was excited for the wedding, but my mentality was not up to speed yet and the carriage seat as much more tempting than listening to a priest's words.

When I finally made my way onto solid ground, I got a better look at my helper. Sherlock looked like hell. And when I say hell, I am not even remotely trying to be funny. Dirt was plastered all over his face. His hair looked like someone had dropped a bomb upon it.

And, truth be told, John looked far worse. Mud covered his ear, his face was cut, his sleeve had somehow managed to rip itself off, and nothing about his uniform made him look like a veteran. I winced at the sight of the pair, the sound of bagpipes making a bizarre soundtrack for the duo.

"What happened to you?" My fingers reached out to touch John's missing sleeve, but I flapped a hand at the situation. "Never mind. I honestly don't care. Let's just get ourselves inside before anyone sees us."

Sherlock took both of our hands in his and we slowly, _slowly_ made our way towards the front of the church. Guests would be arriving soon. We all had to make ourselves look presentable.

A small chuckle escaped my lips. Our trio never ceased to amaze me.

~.~.~.~.~.~

I made sure that Mary did not see the state of her fiancée. A bride had enough pressure as it was, and finding John to look like he did would only ruin her. The second we got into the church I went into the office rooms to find her. She was alone in her dressing room, and was quite ecstatic upon my arrival. Until she saw what I was wearing.

Nothing about her features twisted. She was simply blank-faced. Her eyes shifted from my feet to my eyes, and all I could do was answer her with a shrug. After a moment of hesitation, she let out a bewildered cry. "Renadale, how are you going to go to the wedding? Surely you cannot wear that! The last thing I want to do is ask you to wait outside like a dog!"

"You won't have to!" I tried to calm her. "Sherlock sent his brother to tell Mrs. Hudson to bring me a spare dress." Mary placed a shaky hand on her forehead before falling down in her vanity chair. "Everything will be perfect. I promise."

"John's alright? He didn't have a rough night?"

I froze in my tracks. My jaw was suspended into an oncoming lie. "Not a wink. Barely touched the alcohol."

"And his money?"

My voice was a squeak when I finally managed to answer. "Oh, he gambled well. He made much more than he took in!" _And then lost it all because of Sherlock._

The happiness on Mary's face was enough to make me feel bad about my false story. Her face practically glowed in the span of two seconds. It had been awful of me, but with my ruffled state, I hadn't even taken note of her beauty. It was only when she began to pace the room with silent fears that I got a better view of her.

Lace danced up her neck in the elegant V-line dress. It's bustles were superb; enough to make Irene Adler take a run for her money. Everything was a perfect, pearly white and Mary looked like nothing less than a Princess.

"Mary-" I started.

"What if something goes wrong? My flower girls and dress carriers are getting ready in the next room. They're all so young! What if they become upset and won't do things properly?" Her hands were trembling as they pressed against her lips. Even she didn't want to hear the sound of her own voice, but there was no one there to stop her.

"Mary, you look _beautiful_." She stopped to lean against the window. Her hands found the frame firmly, but she kept her back towards me. "I'm not just saying that as your friend. I'm saying it because it's true. John Watson loves you with all his heart. I see the cloudiness in his eyes when tears form in yours. I've seen the way he dozes off when he thinks of you." Her head was slowly turning over her shoulder as I continued babbling on. The words could not stop coming. "Nothing makes him happier than the thought of you. And everything is finally falling into place. He would not have fought so hard for others lives, if he did not want you in his." My own voice was starting to annoy me, but the smile crossing her face was enough to make me forget my concerns. "Nothing today will go wrong. And if you think for a second that it has, look at it as a memory. One of your firsts as Missus Watson."

Mary flung herself away from the windowsill. In seconds, her arms were enfolded around me and her soft lips were planting a kiss against my cheek. "You have the words of a Queen, Renadale."

I laughed in surprise. "Well, I certainly haven't the money."

"Come," she smiled. "Hudson might not be here with your dress yet, but I can at least get that blue stuff off of your eyes."

I had forgotten about the berries. They were probably all smudged by that point. With my bright red lips and knotted hair, a clown was the only thing I looked similar to. Mary sat me down at her 'laboratory' and began to fix things up. Naturally, the bride wasn't supposed to be the one pampering, but I never saw my life as something normal. Friends helped friends when they needed it. And I was more than happy to call Mary my friend.

"So, how was Holmes?" Mary's happy tone was suddenly returned. She was the master of bridal mood-swings. "Did he forget like we all expected?"

Sherlock was a stupid man. There was no point in denying it. His head might have been an encyclopedia, but I did not believe his entire mind was in tact. I cared for him, but Mary was not worth lying to about a truth she knew so well. "Yes. He did. And I regret to say that he didn't make up for it. He dragged us all into a huge mess."

Her eyes scanned my revealing outfit. "I can see that."

"I'm sure John will tell you all about it. At least he can look forward to his wedding day with a fonder memory than his stag party." I shook my head as Mary began to run a comb through my nest of hair. "Men are always so animated when they go out with their friends."

"There is no such thing as men." She chuckled. "Only childish schoolboys." I watched quietly as her fingers worked miracles upon my head. "Sometimes you just can't tell them that." She had a valid point. I agreed with a guttural grunt and let my mind drift to the wedding's excitement. Mary's eyes were peering over my face and I hadn't even noticed. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," I said, taken by surprise. "You can ask me whatever you like. I just cannot promise an answer."

"Do you love him?"

_Brilliant._

"I…" No part of me wanted to answer that question. Yet, the first word had jumped out of my mouth like a cat onto a mouse. Every bone in me started to hurt and I had to turn my red face away from her. Why was affection so painful? The mirror in front of us clearly defied all of my desire to hide my face. "That is an awfully large question."

"You don't have to answer." She was much more relaxed than I. I feared my trepidation was a clear enough answer.

But I had never said it to myself. Sherlock had certainly never said it.

_I love you._

I tried to imagine myself saying that to him with a clear, relaxed expression. No daydreams seemed to fit. Where would I tell him? In his room at Baker street? In the middle of a battle? Perhaps in the rain like so many romantic tales? None of it seemed to fit into my imagination. We were so nontraditional, he and I. We did not know how we truly felt until the precise opportunity.

"I cannot say it yet," I confessed. "Though I wonder quite often."

Mary's lips could not stop from smiling. Her fingers mockingly poked at my cheeks with girlish affection. "I think you have a secret."

"What?" My face was as pale as her dress. "There are no secrets!"

"You really don't love him then?" Her eyes took a more serious note. She wanted to help me find an answer, not just for her curiosity, but to help me confess. If I could declare it to myself, then surely I could say it to him. But did I want to? "I could never imagine anyone with Sherlock Holmes." The phrase did not make me feel much better. "And then you showed up and everything changed."

"Did it?" My voice was feeble. I went from feeling like a huntress to the hunted. "I never noticed."

"Of course you didn't." Her comforting hand gently found my cheek. "A girl never notices when she's in love."

Maybe Mary was right. When I thought about his face, my heart would feel weak from fondness. All of those times he had aggressively and pathetically vowed his feelings towards me where the happiest in my life. He proved to me that my heart was nothing something to toss aside. It could not be dismantled and left for America. He made me feel like I was worth something. He made me feel like I was everything.

"John wasn't my first fiancée, you know."

All of my thoughts retracted and turned their attention towards the bride. "He's not?"

She shook her head sadly. I could read by her face that the worst had happened. He was not a bastard who broke her heart. "He died," she said quietly. "My father disappeared. My mother passed after I was born and then my husband left me." I took her hand softly in mine as she continued on. "Ever since I was little, I felt like I was cursed. It was so hard for me to even begin to admit my feelings to John. I regretted it for the longest time. The last thing I want you to do is be like me, though I hope you end up as happy as I am on this day."

More than ever, I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to thank her for her kind words. She deserved every drop of bliss on her wedding day. However, I did not have the chance to console.

"Renadale?" A familiar voice came from the room's threshold. Mrs. Hudson timed her entrance badly, and with a pink dress to make it even worse. "Your dress is here." She tried to shield her eyes from the bride, wanting to keep the secret hidden. "Come with me, dear. We'll have you fixed up in no time. I can't even imagine what Sherlock's done to you to get you into a costume like that."

"He's done a bit of good, actually." I smirked. "Apparently I'm quite the showgirl."

"Yes, well, today is not _our_ show! It is the Watsons." Her hand anxiously waved me out from the room. "The guests will be here shortly. We must get you prepared."

Before I followed the landlady out, I turned one last time to Mary. "Just remember one thing. We should illuminate the blessings that we have now, and leave our curses to the darkness." Mary only gave me a soft smile. Seeing her slightly happy was enough for me. I then took my leave.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Many people attended the wedding. The church was a decent size, and everyone filled the rows accordingly. There were John's military friends, Mary's well-traveled relatives, and many other happy spectators. I felt honored to be amongst such people. I felt honored to be their friend.

Mary was making her way down the aisle, her feet as light as a feather. A thin veil shielded her face, but it was not difficult to see how stunning she looked. "She looks beautiful, doesn't she?" A man nearby whispered into my ear.

"She always does."

Before we knew it, she joined her fiancée at the alter. John, bruised but still dashing, was eagerly waiting for her arrival. When she took her spot, his nervous hands pulled back her veil. Not a word was spoken. The only sound could be of nearby violins hushing their strings. The love on their faces was unmistakable.

Until Mary noticed his and Sherlock's condition. Then it was a bit harder to keep the love flowing.

I nearly laughed in the quiet alter at the confused expression she wore. My white glove slowly reached towards my lips to keep myself from giggling. Even in the most serious of moments, Sherlock and John always found a way to make me threaten the peace with my laughter.

The ceremony continued on. Vows were made elegantly and passionately. The golden ring was placed on her smooth, white fingers. Their kiss was one for the Gods and every cheer from the audience was one of utter glee.

As I clapped my hands together, I could not help but a feel an enormous wave of emotions. Tears stung the bottom of my eyes. Their lives would change, but so would all of ours. Children would be brought into the world. They would grow and marry themselves off as well. All of my concerns about Watson were vanished. If he did not work with us anymore, then it needed to be that way. His position was clearly with Mary. They belonged together, not just as a couple, but in life.

I just wasn't sure Sherlock felt the same.

Everyone made their way out into the beautiful, nearly-spring day. The heavens were blessing the couple with the radiant sunshine and blooming of buds. No other season could be more perfect for a wedding. The flowers were beginning a new life, and so were the happy couple.

"Present arms!"

The soldiers lifted their swords valiantly in an arch for the Watsons to walk beneath. I stood at the very end of the line, craning my neck down the aisle to get a better view. Gladstone chased happily on their tails, but the crowd's applauding covered his excited barks.

I had never seen a more perfect wedding.

I had never seen a wedding to begin with, but that was beside the point.

Yet, where was Sherlock? I did not see him anywhere in the rows of people. Perhaps he had gotten stuck inside the church. My eyes scanned the whole gardens for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. John locked eyes with me, the question clearly written on his face. My shrug was answer enough. He did not let it bother him. With a large puff of his cheeks in a sigh, he took Mary's hand carefully in his as petals rained above their heads.

I, on the other hand, was not as pleased. My feet instantly took me away from the ceremony and towards the motorized carriage. Passing a few large hedges and into the carriage lot, I could spot Holmes a few feet in front of me. "Sherlock!" I called out to him. He turned to face me, a keen smile playing on his grimy face. "You look so awful."

"I was much more concerned with Watson looking respectable than my own appearance."

A smile trickled across my face. My hand gently pressed against his chest. "You did a fine job. The wedding was flawless. You even managed to remember he ring."

He was clearly distressed. I knew he was happy for his best friend, but it was his _only_ best friend, and that made it all the more agonizing. There were no lectures coming from my lips. If he wanted to leave the ceremony, I knew it was not out of spite. "What's next now that Watson's going on his honeymoon? Are we travelling?"

"As much as I feel comfortable in my own London home…"

A heavy sigh fell from my lips. "We _are_ travelling, aren't we?"

His whole body leaned towards me, his lips just barely brushing against my ear. "Remember how I told you to hold onto those clothes of mine?" My whole face was growing hot. I could only nod my head in fear of my voice cracking. That was all he said before he shot me another smirk and walked off towards the carriage.

I watched in silence as his fingers began cranking at the engine. Though I was fascinated with inventions, I did not care to know how the thing worked. It was a monster in my eyes. A smoke-filled, vulgar monster.

"Quite the strange invention, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry?" I turned to place the voice behind me, but the face still did not match up in my head. The young man was no one of my acquaintance, and I began to feel hot under the collar. Why was he talking to me?

"Your friend sure comes up with some odd ideas."

I could not stop staring at his face. He was unshaven, but neatly so.

_Not poor enough that he can't afford a barber, but not arrogant enough to have a clean face. A man of duty. But to whom? _

His hat was old, but nicely cut and perfectly suited to his head.

_It's too nice to be something that was passed down. He clearly cares about making his own way in the world. A man of duty? A soldier, perhaps. _

His jacket was brand new. There was not a speck of dust on the tie.

_He is not a member of the wedding. He's here for other reasons. Business reasons._

"Are you sizing me up?" He cracked an amused grin as I continued to stare at him. Somehow, he did not intimidate me, though his presence was making me sweat. I did not like talking to strangers, and he was certainly strange. "You have an odd style of living, Miss Adkins."

"How do you know who I am?"

"The Professor told me." I was not quite expecting him to be so blunt with his response. My body leaned back a bit in surprise, which only made him grin wider. "He says you're quite the fan of his."

"I was," I spat. "Until I realized what he was up to."

"That's a shame. He doesn't have very many pretty fans. Just old men who like to sit around and smoke cigars." His head jerked over towards Sherlock, who was now beginning to eye us curiously. "And Sherlock Holmes. It's been clear that Sherlock Holmes has a _very_ large interest in James Moriarty."

"Then why are you speaking to me?" My eyes narrowed threateningly. I was tired of being pinned against invisible (and real) walls to only be threatened for something that was not my concern. "Go and speak to my boss. I'm sure he'll have better answers than I do."

"Of course, love." The man began to pass me, but paused at my side. "Don't think that you're clear of this mess, though. He knows who you are now. There's no stopping him when he decides he wants someone erased."

He then left me on my own. Every inch of me was cold beneath the pink dress, despite the warm day. Had I just received a death threat? By the sound of his words, my life was at stake. Nothing in my mind could fathom how this had come to be. Was Moriarty really that vicious? Like the bearded man had said, I used to be his fan. Now I was his enemy.

'No loose ends' was becoming far more serious than I had anticipated.

My feet were about to run towards Sherlock, to tell him what happened, but when I turned he was already speaking to the man. Looks of concern crossed my partner's face, and his eyes would occasionally shift towards mine. Did he know? Did he know that I was suddenly in danger as well? I could see in his eyes that he could protect me. Even though the man had threatened my life, Sherlock would be there to save me.

I decided to pay for a separate cab to take me home. Sherlock and I would talk later. For now, I just wanted to be at home. I needed some private time to think, though with a death threat on my heels, being alone could be potentially dangerous. Sherlock had always saved me before, however. If I was in true danger, he would be at my side in an instant.

_No. _

_I _had to start fighting. He hadn't taught me without a reason. My shrieks had to be done with. I didn't have a say in the matter, but suddenly all of my innocence was thrust into the middle of the chess game.

And my Queen was wide open.

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

**Das war nicht sehr interessant. **

**But, review? Please? :3 Much more fun (AND BIG) stuff to come later!**


	7. Man of the Hour

**Sooo, I just want to give another big shout out to strange-sort-of-company who sent me the sweetest PM and offered up some FABULOUS suggestions for this chapter. So, her brainstorming encouraged me to get things moving, and let it be known that the train station mix up was her idea. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you will very soon. (: I dedicate this chapter to her for her continuous support! Nothing makes me work harder than a wonderful fan!**

**And that ALSO goes the same for all of you LOVELY readers out there! Please review! I would love to know what you have to say about things. (:**

**Author's challenge: If you could have Sherlock say one thing to Renadale, what would it be? (This can be humorous, romantic, etc. I'm so very curious as to what you all have to say. And if I really really love any of them, perhaps it may pop up in the story some day… -wink-) **

**PLEASE REVIEW! I HEART YOU ALL.**

**Much luv,**

**Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

Weeds will forever surround our feet. We might tear at them. We might rip them to shreds from our gardens, but they will always remain. Flowers will wilt as the sun travels her way across the sky. They will bloom and then curl up to die, despite our longing for them to flourish. Life is a moving contradiction. The second you expect a soft whisper, you shall get a scream. When you find yourself safe, you are at your weakest.

My arms were tightly wrapped around my torso as I stood beside my bedroom window. Nothing was protecting me from the world out there. My pane of glass and my wooden doors were not enough to stop the threat from lingering in my life. I think I held myself more tightly because of that single thought. I believed myself to be lost to circumstances.

I was beyond protection. If Moriarty wanted me gone, then by God, he would see to it. Of course, I wasn't much of a threat. That wasn't going to stop him. If there was any inch of knowledge creeping through my eyes about his demonic ways, then I would simply have to be removed from the equation.

An audible groan escaped my closed lips. It wasn't fair when I didn't even know how to read the equation.

After the bearded man had tempted me to go into hiding with his words, every single one of my senses became astoundingly clear. Life was reawakening itself to me. I had a large sense of the existing and non-existing. I was beginning to pay better attention to what was around me. Why? Because I could no longer run away.

Standing at my window and watching those who passed down below was the only thing that seemed to satisfy my troubled mind. Not many people wandered down my street, so I was horribly taken aback when I noticed Sherlock's fedora from above. "Why is he here?" My feet took me down the stairs in a flash. I wanted to reach him before my mother's loud mouth did.

I flew outside the door before his eyes even had a chance of glimpsing at it. He saw me bounding towards him and instantly halted in his tracks. "You seem to be in a state of commotion. Is everything alright?"

"No," I mumbled. "Everything is _not _alright. Nothing ever seems to be alright when I'm with you."

"Now, now." His smirk was the furthest thing from helpful. "Let's not jump to blame so quickly in the conversation."

"He said my life was in danger, Sherlock." This seemed to catch his attention. His entire smile crumpled into a twitch and a clear expression of confusion. "I'm not standing here to ask you to protect me. I'm requesting that you help me find my own way."

"He will not touch you."

There was an enormous amount of affection in his heated words, but I had to disregard them at that moment. I could see the ferocity lingering behind his eyes. Though I was equally as distraught, I had to convince him that I was otherwise. "Things will continue to go as they normal. I will work by your side as John takes his honeymoon in Brighton. We will solve things better than we have been, and the case will continue to go smoothly."

"And you actually believe that?"

"Of course I don't."

"And what of your protection?"

"It's simple. I will fend for myself." My voice trickled off into a whisper. "And when you happen to be there, perhaps you can aid me if I'm looking troubled."

"John's not going to Brighton."

Suddenly, all of my previous thoughts washed away. My head flew up from the ground as we locked eyes in an instant. "Why are you saying this? Have their plans changed?"

"Yes." Sherlock's brown eyes were practically jeering. I knew he was up to something and certainly not in John's favor. "He just doesn't know it."

"Sherlock Holmes, don't you _dare_ drag him into another mess." John Watson had just been married! The couple didn't have enough time together as it were, but now Sherlock was set on ruining the happiest period of their lives together. Well, before children. "Where are you planning on taking him?"

"Paris."

Images to the beginning of our previous (and unfinished) case came swirling into my head like a loose tornado. I could not stop seeing strands of red thread, tumbled love letters, abstract symbols, and opera glasses. A moment of silence fell between us and our rushed conversation slowly turned to one of ease. "I will not express my present distaste at this time," I muttered. "However, I must ask why you were about to knock on my door."

"You left the wedding in a hurry. You did not even have time to properly congratulate the new couple!" His brows scrunched together at the surprise of my previous attitude. I could only jut my lip out as a response. He was not wrong in his accusations.

"Nor did you," I reminded him. "I, unlike you, was a bit more preoccupied with my threat to be thinking about cake." My words instantly burned my tongue and I wished to take them back. "Oh, but I do wish I could have stayed. Mary went to such great lengths for the meal."

"No matter. There will be other meals with Mary." His voice was rushed to get to his main point. "I came here to inform you that I am going to meet with James Moriarty before stealing John away. He knows that I am in the game now, and I'm certain we will be able to speak on more… _understanding_ terms."

Fear began to bubble up inside of me. This time, it was not for my own beating heart, but for Sherlock's. My weary eyes scanned his body, as though I wanted to remember it in case anything happened. James Moriarty wasn't stupid enough to pull a move onto Sherlock Holmes at a public place like Oxford, but I wanted to take note of his stature just in case. He caught my gaze and I instantly turned my face to hide the color rising to my cheeks.

I encouraged him to get moving, but to come back immediately with answers. If Moriarty knew we were out there, the threats would continue to grow. And the more he threatened us, the more afraid he must have been. It was a consoling thought, but as I watched Sherlock's coat flipping behind him, Moriarty's tight grin was all I seemed to see.

~.~.~.~.~.~

The hours passed and my home became quiet. The constantly ticking of the clock above my desk mocked me to no end. My mother was out, a surprise now that her nerves were enhanced, and I was left to my solitude. Not even the glorious sunset could calm my nerves. I kept expecting someone to walk in with a gun in their hands at any minute. A gun to point to my head. A gun to fire. A gun to end my life, all because of a red-headed man.

A loud banging on my door caused my to scream from my bed. My hands instantly clamped over my mouth in embarrassment. Whoever was at my door was probably laughing at me, but I made my way downstairs regardless. I should have expected Sherlock to be on the other side, but somehow his presence startled me.

"Did you scream?"

"I… No."

He made his way briskly inside. Something was distraught about his nature, but I could not place my finger on it. "What have you been doing over the past few hours?"

"I've been…" When I tried to recall my past events, nothing came to mind. "Sitting."

"Sitting?"

"That's all I've been able to do, it seems." I was embarrassed to admit this to him, but he didn't seem to mind. His entire character was changed. He was urgent and swift. His mind needed to be distracted from something. It was only when he tore his coat off that I noticed the difference in his appearance. "Sherlock…" My voice was soft in dread of offense. "What is that?" We both looked towards a laced handkerchief sticking from his breast pocket. I knew his to be red. It was certainly not mine, as I often lost the little fabrics, so it clearly belonged to another woman.

I watched in silence as his face twisted into something of pain. He did not say anything, but my hand instantly reached out towards his cut cheek. My fingers slid silently over his hair as we shortened the distance between us. "I'm quite alright," he reassured. "Don't concern yourself." He was close enough to whisper it in my ear and have it be more than loud, but I knew he did not wish to speak. I knew that there had been tension over the past few days. I wanted to resolve it quickly, but my beating heart was too much of a distraction.

"What did you learn from Moriarty?" I tried to change the subject as I let my hand fall from his cold face.

"A great many things," he chuckled darkly. "One, for example, being that he is an egoist. He also has splendid penmanship, is a liar and that he is going on a lecture tour."

"To Paris." I couldn't help but smile. Clearly, that was why we were making our way there.

"To Paris." He reassured. "He also means to set his sights on Watson and his new wife."

The calmness in Sherlock's voice and stature was enough to give me a premature heart attack. My hands flung out to cling onto his shoulders as the words trickled though my brain. "What on Earth are you talking about? Do you mean he wishes to…?" Sherlock nodded; a confirmation added to more of my daily horrors. How had such a beautiful day turned sour so quickly? "We have to do something."

"Of course we do!" Sherlock brushed past me in a hurry and began to make his way up the stairs. "We must fetch your things and be off. Their train leaves in two hours, and preparing ourselves for their departure is of the utmost importance."

I stumbled up the stairs, practically tripping over my own feet as he rushed into my bedroom. More heat was flooding towards my cheeks. He was in my room! Not that it was much to look at, but knowing he was standing where I brushed my hair, powdered my face, and changed my clothes… "Sherlock!" I grumbled, taking a firm hold of his shoulders in mine. "Don't you think you ought to ask before you enter someone's private quarters?" I began to push him towards the door, but he firmly dug his heels into the wooden boards and refused to budge. "Whatever you're looking for, just tell me and I'll get it!"

"Put those clothes on. The ones I gave you."

My hands were still on his shoulders, and I depressingly allowed my head to fall onto his back. "Oh, please, not so soon." My words were muted as I buried my lips into his jacket with a heavy sigh.

"Yes! As soon as possible!" He clapped his hands together with a greedy excitement. Once again, the puppet had to dance for his master. He left the room as I slipped into my costume, tied up my hair and altered my shoes. When I was finished, I allowed him to come back inside, albeit with humiliation. "You know, you're getting very quick at that."

A couldn't help to let a small grunt escape my lips. "Trust me, I don't take pride in it."

"Take anything you need for Paris," he said as he ignored my statement. "Don't bring any valuables, as you might have a chance at losing them." I was about to ask what he meant by that, but he slipped out the door before I could even utter a word.

"Valuables?" I laughed as I began to toss things into my father's old trunk. "As if I have any of those!" As I threw my few possessions into the case, I could not stop picturing my mother. She would be left alone. Again. She was finally having a happy day out with Edward's mother, the first since he'd passed, and I was going to be miles away when she returned. If her heart was not already broken, I was simply trampling on it now.

"Are you quite ready?" His voice asked from behind the closed door. Somehow it was beginning to irk me. "Time is ticking away!"

"Time is _always_ ticking away!" I answered with a click of my suitcase. "And do you want to know why? Because you're chasing its heels all day long…" I flung open the door before I spat out my agitated last words. "… and all it wants is to get away from you."

He couldn't help but smile, despite my flushed cheeks. "You'd best leave a note for your mother." His voice was calm. The last thing I had expected was for him to take my hand, but the sensation occurred and it was impossible to hide my blush. "She'll be worried about you."

"She's always worried when I'm with you."

His body inched dangerously close to mine. I saw his hand reaching across my torso, and considering I had no idea what his intention was, I held my breath firmly. His fingers passed my bodice and quickly took a hold of my bedroom door handle to pull it to a close. "Trust me," he smirked, keeping the distance between us short. "I'm the last one she needs to worry about."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The train station was packed when we arrived. We had taken a moriah to the station to get there as quickly as possible. The blinds were drawn shut to make sure no one was suspicious of my 'grand' disguise. I was just overly grateful that we weren't taking Sherlock's machine.

The ride was as quiet as the grave. My stomach was twisting inside of itself, but I was able to hide the panic in my face beneath the newsboy cap. Sherlock was sitting directly beside me, though what made him do so to begin with, I wasn't quite sure. It was only when my hands started shaking that I understood. He quietly took my head and pressed it to his shoulder. I wanted to cry with relief upon the sweet gesture, but I was too afraid to make even a whimper. His warm body was enough of a consolation. I was worried about everything: John and Mary, myself, Sherlock, my mother. _Adjusting _to the fear was the hardest part. It wasn't even the fear itself.

When we got to the train station, the noise and commotion quickly put me out of my previous state of mind. John and Mary were in danger and Sherlock and I were the only ones who could actually do anything about it. We made our way swiftly though the crowds and towards the front counter. No one even raised their eyes to me. I was even more of a social hermit when I was a boy. Who knew?

"Two tickets to Brighton. First class." Sherlock slammed money down on the counter, taking both me and the ticket boy by surprise. He quickly shuffled around behind the desk and presented us with what we needed. Sherlock gratefully tipped his hat and began to rush straight forward.

"Wait!" I called out, stumbling to catch up with him. He wasn't stopping. Now that we were in the heat of the moment, Sherlock was beyond talking to. He was completely immersed in the situation at hand.

"I'm going to ask you to do me a favor, will you?" Before I could even accept or deny, he began pushing me towards the back of a stationed train. I could see men in red uniforms loading bags in towards the back. I felt threatened just looking at them. Those were bags of rich ladies and gentleman. _Very_ rich. Why were we getting so close to them?

"I'm actually more terrified of what your possible plan is, than the act of following through with it."

"Listen to me carefully." There was no backing out now. He held me straight in front of him, his eyes searching mine for focus. "I need you to go over there when the coachmen are no longer in sight. I want you to take the case entitled 'tenue' on it. Do you understand?"

Though he was speaking to me like a child, I didn't blame him when the French came in. "Tenue…?" I repeated slowly, the words sounding like utter mush in my mouth.

"Exactly. I need you to take that case, act like you know what you're doing with it, and meet me in the train's restroom."

"What if they see me?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, as though considering an alternative plan. He soon realized that there was not enough time and quietly passed me a firm gaze. "Don't let them. Bathroom. As soon as possible." He began to head towards the back of the train, but before he entered, he mouthed the word again towards me.

Tenue.

And then he was out of sight.

Mind you, I had no idea what the word meant. I was more than pleased to be slipping away from any wandering eyes, and followed the plan to the best of my memory. My eyes watched the coachmen carefully from a nearby pole. I let my shoulder lean against it, trying to look as casual as possible. They were filing in cases, and one in particular caught my eye.

Tenue!

I could see it scrawled perfectly on the side. It had a glossy, black exterior and practically called my name. Now all I had to wait for was…

They were leaving! There were only two men situated at the back of the train, filing the grand cases into the protected area. They were young, and didn't seem very well fitted for the task. A wealthy woman entering first class called their attention, and they were off in a flash, each racing to help the Dowager.

Sherlock was certainly a good judge of character. The bags were wide open, all thanks to two insolent schoolboys.

I nearly laughed out loud as I sneakily made my way over towards the cases on the platform. In one quick flash, I would scoop up the handle and be on my way.

Except, when I reached the baggage, my mind began to play tricks on me.

There was a box labeled 'tenue" and another beside it labeled 'tingue'. Every part of me began to shake. Why could I suddenly not remember which one it was? My gut reaction was the first one, but the second one seemed much more grand. Where was Sherlock when you needed him?

I didn't have time to second-guess myself. The men had already helped the woman onto the train and were swiftly making their return towards the last car. Whatever Sherlock needed, I prayed it wasn't too important. I grabbed the bag that held my gut instinct and rushed onto the train before anyone could speculate my presence.

He waited in the bathroom as noted, but it was a rare surprise that we both actually fit. I squeezed my way in as swiftly as possible, my body colliding with his in an instant. He did not seem to be flustered by the lack of air, but his main concern was the case. "Did you get it?" He whispered hotly.

"I… I did." It was impossible for me not to stutter with his body pressed against mine. _Oh, how foolish! Now is not the time to be thinking about such things!_ My hand fumbled with the case as I pushed it against his body. All I wanted was to be free from that tiny prison. "I'll go wait in the seat just outside. Peek your head in if you need anything."

His face twisted into confusion, as if there was nothing he could possibly need from me. I let it pass and made my way out and into the quiet seat next door. It wasn't thirty seconds later that I was granted with his face.

Only, he was_ far_ from pleased.

"Renadale, what did I tell you to do?"

I knew in a second that I had messed it up. "You… Um, you told me to get a briefcase."

"Yes. Which briefcase was that again?"

My shoulders pathetically lifted into a shrug. "A French one?"

His brow was furrowed into something I believed would be permanent. I jumped a bit in my seat as he made his way into the booth and slammed the door behind him. "Renadale, I want you to open this." He flung the case next to me with a thud. I squeaked a bit, as it's brown exterior glimmered back at me. "_Open it_."

My hands were back to shaking as I quietly clicked open the gold clasps. My gasp was not enough to express my emotions as I saw what lied inside. Instead, I could not help but to burst into a fit of laughter. "Oh, Sherlock! No! I'm so terribly sorry! Is this_ all_ my doing?"

"It's absolutely your doing. I said 'tenue'!" He groaned in agitation, slamming the lid shut as fast as he could. "Not Tingue! What is Tingue, even? A name?"

"Well, isn't tenue?"

"Tenue means uniform!"

He was trying to look like a coachman, and instead he would end up looking like… I shook the strange image from my head. "There's no time to go back now. You must change into that outfit quickly, before anyone sees you in your normal state." He knew I was right. Grunting with displeasure, he snatched the parcel and made his way outside and into the restroom. When he was fully out of view, I could not help myself from pressing my bare fingers to my lips and letting loose all of my remaining chuckles.

Sherlock Holmes dressed as a woman! The sight was going to be the wildest thing I had ever witnessed! Inwardly, however, I was quite excited about the entire thing, and knew that it was the perfect blackmail if I ever needed such a threat.

Sherlock took quite a while to change. I suspect it was because he had no idea what went where, and which button went to which hole. But, he did eventually find his way back into the seat, the bitterness etched over each of his sun-caused wrinkles. "I don't want to hear you say a word. I just want you to fix anything that is incorrect."

My smile was glued to my face. I stood up in my pants to take a better look at Sherlock in his skirt. We were quite the odd couple, but luckily no one was around to speculate. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said as I bit on my lower lip. "I think you're as beautiful as they come."

His head only rolled down to the center to help send a glare directly into my pupils. He seemed to soften a bit as I only beamed in return and tapped his nose lightly. "In all honestly, you don't look half bad. The hat might be over-doing it, but you look like something straight out of an Elizabeth Gaskell novel."

I didn't expect him to have a clue what I was talking about, and it turned out I was right. His large skirts fluttered out beneath him as he took a seat across from me. Something was missing in his appearance. He was still far too manly, despite his flouncy dress. He noticed my stressed expression and grunted before asking, "Is something the matter?"

"You don't look like a woman."

His brows rose slowly before he let out a sharp laugh. "Really? The dress doesn't quite top it off?"

"No," I said honestly. "I'm not doing this to pester you, but rather for your own safety." As I spoke, I began to rummage through my own case. He watched me with obvious anxiety. When I pulled out my only vial of lipstick, he seemed to recoil in disgust. "You have to do it, Sherlock."

"I've done a great many things to protect you, and now you threaten me with this."

"You are a master of disguise. What is one streak of lipstick and a bit of blush going to do to you? Is it going to lower society's opinion of you?" My eyes made a quick swish over his entire bodice. "Trust me, you're far beyond that." He did not fuss as I made my way across the seat. I believed it was because he knew my words were right. We were going to great lengths to protect our dear Watson and his new wife, but that's what friends were supposed to do.

I quietly took his chin in one of my hands, pulling it towards me. "Stay still," I ordered softly as my hand began to apply the makeup onto his face. Though I assumed he was embarrassed, I was shocked to feel his eyes on my face the entire time. I must have been blushing, considering I wasn't wearing an ounce of powder and we were so close to one another. He could view every flaw on my pale face if he desired to.

"You don't need any of this." My hand stopped, as I was halfway though his upper lip. Slowly, my eyes lifted. I could not read his expression, nor could I understand what his words meant. "This makeup, I mean. What made you bring it?"

"Well, because I _do_ need it," I confessed. "It's not as though I am blessed with a clear complexion."

"You don't need it," he repeated quietly as I began to splash on rogue. "Your face is quite alright."

A bitter chuckle fell from my lips as I whisked the pink blush across his cheeks. "Why, thank you. I'll be sure to write such a tender expression in my journal this evening."

"Renadale." His fingers unexpectedly stopped my wrist from the middle of their work. This time, I could not gather up the courage to look towards him. Instead I kept my eyes focused on the ribbon tied beneath his chin. "You don't need any of it, because-"

"Please," I whimpered. My hand fumbled with the brush as I tried to finish up my previous labor. With all of the thoughts fluttering though my head, and the beating rushing to heart, I could not seem to focus. "Please, don't go on."

Sherlock looked pained by my words, but somehow I grew scared. I didn't want him to call me beautiful. I didn't want him to say that I was charming or pretty. None of it made sense to me anymore. I was beyond accepting compliments. I didn't want the truth; whatever it was.

"Have I offended you?"

"No!" I whispered, inching even closer towards him. His skirts were beyond separating us now. I could feel his leg against mine, but there was no way I was about to kiss him. Not with all of the lipstick on his face. "You could never offend me."

"Then why-?"

"It's silly," I tried to squeeze out a laugh, but it ended up sounding more like sputtering. I refocused myself back to the makeup and began to apply a blue powder above his eyes. "You don't need to force any words from your lips to make _me _feel better."

Once again, I could feel his heated stare on my face. "Renadale, I don't wish to tell you that you're beautiful because I'm worried about your feelings." My entire body would have crumpled over with a faint if he hadn't kept talking. "I'm trying to tell you these things because I…" I waited in anxiety to hear what he was about to say. His heated attitude seemed to toss him into a fit of confession, but he stopped himself before he uttered another word. "Never mind. You're not in the mood to hear what I have to say, clearly."

"Sherlock-" I started, but he swiftly stood up.

"The train is about to move. We must be in our positions."

"What's my position?" I asked, still trying to recatch the breath that had left my body.

Before he answered, he pulled a large, blonde wig from the trunk and tossed it lazily on top of his head. Despite the humorous look, makeup and all, I could not seem to find my laughter anymore. "Stay here. You will know when you're needed."

He then made his way in the opposite direction of the restroom. I had no idea what he was doing. I had no idea what thoughts were on his mind, or what words still lingered on his tongue. All that mattered was that we were about to thrust ourselves into the middle of what I feared would become an enormous mess.

I shakily put everything back inside of my trunk and slid it in the compartment above the seat. As I tucked it into safety, my fingers trailed over the name on the side of the case.

_Adkins_

My father's fingers had touched the very handle that I had only moments ago let loose. His white-haired knuckles had gripped it tightly when he made his trips into the country. His whole presence was surrounding me, and for a split second I thought I could hear his voice in my ears.

"_Reandale, my darling, tell him how you feel."_

"How?" I muttered aloud, shutting my eyes to try and get away from his voice. I wanted him near me. It had just been so long that I did not know how to handle my own imagination.

"_I was always the most unhappy when I did not know what your mother wanted. When she shied away from me, I thought my heart had shattered. When she was unclear, I was a mess."_

"Father…" I whispered into the silent air. "I feel too strongly for him, and I do not know if he feels the same. I cannot have my heart be broken again." I knew people could see my from the outside window, but I did not care. My concern was not for them. Renadale Adkins was first and foremost there for _herself_. "Not again."

There were no more voices to answer my words. Silence surrounded me, for a while, until the high-pitched hum of a train whistle flooded into my ears.

We were off.

And, though I thought I knew where we were headed, I was so terribly wrong.

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

**UH-OH.**

**What could she mean by that?**

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	8. The Reason Why

**Oh! Hello! I didn't see you there for a moment.**

…

**I'm terribly sorry. I feel as though I should say something to you, but I just don't know quite what to say.**

**I'm not one for social interactions. Haha!**

**Haha…**

**Hm. Well. I guess I can just give you my best wishes. **

**I hope you enjoy reading this story! Not that I know who you are. But, I guess since you're here, you must have some liking for it, right?**

**Well. Okay. I'm going to leave now.**

**~Renadale**

**~.~.~.~.~**

No one had wanted to sit next to me. A few pompous men and woman had stuck their heads in, but when they saw a pauper boy seated in first class, that was enough to shudder them straight down the hallway. I was certainly glad of it. I had even locked my door on one occasion when someone looked particularly keen on sharing my booth.

The whistle of the train had just sounded its warning of departure. That wasn't what caught my attention. Just outside of my door I could see Sherlock's curled, blonde wig struggling to get to the bathroom. My breath was halted so I could get a better grasp of his conversation.

"I'm sorry, madam." A conductor began to speak. I applauded myself on being able to pass him as a woman. "You can't use the lavatory while the train is in the station." Sherlock's bright red lips pouted a sour look before the man headed in the opposite direction.

_Sherlock Holmes, what are you up to? _I quietly knocked on the window to grab his attention. He gave me a startled look before peaking his head inside. "John and Mary are in the seat beside you. Don't make things obvious. Don't act like you know me." His voice was harsh before he slammed the door shut in my face.

There was no doubt about it. I could see the plan he had up his sleeve as clear as I could see the manliness behind his makeup.

If he was already up to his plans, then what was _I _supposed to be doing? My arms folded across my chest as I sat in wonderment. With nothing to read or look at, I was left once again with my dear friend, silence. He was not as nice as he sounded. In fact, I loathed him at that moment.

Another whistle from the train blew and we were off. I could hear the clacking of the wheels moving beneath my seat. I hadn't been on a train in ages and the familiar humming was a pleasant sound to my ears. Trains were marvelous inventions. What else did the world need besides that? As far as I was concerned, everything worth being invented had been done so.

I wasn't sure how long the machine had been moving, but we were out into the English countryside before I knew could even completely doze off. Something dripped down my chin as I stumbled away. It was a good thing that I dressed like a boy, because my drool was far from lady like. My hands quickly scrubbed it away before anyone was to barge in.

And it was perfect timing too.

"_Well_!" I shouted as Sherlock burst into my room. His skirts got caught in the doorway, and he grunted in anger as he tugged them out of the slot. He wasn't afraid of looking exasperated when he sat down across from me. His eyes were wild beneath their blue shadow and for a second I thought he was going to scream.

"They're taking too long!" His voice was sour as he responded.

"For what?"

"Someone is going to try and trick Watson and Mary."

"The Watsons, you mean. They're married."

"For now, anyway." He flapped a hand and continued with his heated words. "I don't know how Moriarty's men are going to trick them, or with what, but so far no one has even knocked on their door. I'm fearing that I got into these hose for nothing."

A frown drooped onto my face. "Well, what if they're there right now and you're missing your chance?" We both read the same idea in the other's face and stumbled towards the door to peek our heads out. The sight before us was enough to get our blood pumping. A man cladded in red began to walk down the hallway with a bottle of glitzy champagne perfectly placed in his hand. He didn't stop until he was at John's cabin. Our heads flew back behind the door in fear of catching his eye. "Is that him?"

"Wait for it." His slim finger rose to his lips.

There was a knock on the door.

Someone slid it open on it's tracks.

It was difficult to hear over the thumping of the train, but a quiet, "With our compliments, sir," was clear enough for us to catch. The concierge was giving John and Mary a bottle of booze. But why?

"Sherlock, I don't think-" My words were cut off by the squeaking of a train whistle. Above us, the electrical lamp flickered for a moment before bursting back into life. Mary's scream was quick to follow. "I don't think we have to wait much longer!" I finished my sentence before darting out into the hallway.

"Wait!" Sherlock's rough hands pulled me back inside. "Just give them a moment!" My face was hot beyond compare. Our friends were in danger and he was telling me to wait! Part of me questioned my fighting abilities, and the other half blamed it on a secret plan Sherlock had failed to mention.

There was always one of those.

"I think it's time for you to leave." Mary's voice was clear from the thin walls between us. It sounded like they had things under control. However, Sherlock Holmes was not with them. Therefore, they were probably still in danger. As much as I hated to admit it, we were all sort of lost without him.

Then again, if we had never met him, we would have been even more splendid.

"Renadale, come." Sherlock began to tug me towards the cabin on the opposite side. I didn't argue. Instead, I let him lock me in the darkness. The light bulb never regained its glow after the power shut off in that cabin; the only thing I could make out clearly was his astoundingly blue eye powder. "Someone else is coming down the hallway. I'm going to take care of things." Despite the tension, his voice was reasonably calm.

"You are?" My voice was not quite as delicate.

"Yes." He paused. "If I need your help, you will give it. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir." My large eyes could not seem to pull away from his face. Based on instinct, my fingers brushed a blonde curl from his face. Naturally, it felt a bit strange. For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me, but we both decided it was proper moment with a sharp turn of our heads. He was also wearing lipstick.

Lipstick? I began to recall a time upon which Sherlock teased Watson about being a drag. The memory did not last long.

Without even a small warning, Sherlock threw back the door and sent a punch with his elbow to a man in the corridor. I gasped in surprise at the suddenly brusque nature. No one could hear my audible shock as Sherlock turned to send a bullet whizzing down the hall.

"What are you _doing_?" My hands nearly pulled the gun away from him. Until I saw two more men heading our way.

"Duck!" His voice was firm as he lifted the gun towards my head. With another shriek, I did as I was told. Two more bullets were sent whirling over my newsboy cap.

As metal continued to soar through the air, I decided that it was best if I stayed on the floor. Things had finally quieted down, until the cocking of a gun caught us off guard. John held it firmly beneath Sherlock's chin, even after the horrible shock flickered onto his face. I was unsure whether to blame the disbelief on his unexpected appearance, or the lipstick tumbling down his face.

"I agree it's not my best disguise, but I had to make do." Sherlock's long lashes slowly flickered towards me. "_We_ had to make do." Pathetically, I gave John a small wave before his face turned to one of repulsion.

John wasn't going to get a word in. Before he had a chance to, Sherlock shoved John inside of his compartment, and I quickly stumbled into the doorway as well. Mary wore the same look that John did. "Renadale?" I believed she sincerely thought me to be a man at first. "My God!"

There was no time for explanations. "They'll be back." Sherlock said firmly.

"John!" Mary's voice was weak as she struggled to grasp the situation. "Shut the door!" None of us blamed her for being upset. This wasn't exactly the ideal honeymoon.

"They'll only shoot through it, my love," her fiancée responded bitterly.

Sherlock tried to console her, but nothing seemed to work. "He's right, you know." Mary's head was literally spinning as she sat herself down.

"I know you probably wonder about our crazy adventures," I chuckled darkly. "Now you at least get to say that you've been in one!" Her eyes matched the color of her hair. "Or… you can just forget this ever happened."

"I understand." Sherlock continued an attempt of comfort.

Mary's leaned in a bit closer, narrowing her eyes into threatening slits. "_Do_ you?" Mary had never been a huge fan of Sherlock Holmes. I had heard that she tossed wine into his face upon their first meeting. The distasteful look she held for Sherlock on the train was a clear example of her prime fury.

"Terribly inconvenient!" Sherlock rose from his seat. That was all of the pep talk he had inside of him. Things went straight back to business. "We don't have much time." I watched as he peeked his torso out of the train. What was he looking for? Mary stood up in bewilderment, but I was quick to take her hands in mine.

"I wish I could tell you that I knew what was going on."

"My honeymoon was supposed to be perfect!"

"And it will be!" I ensured. "I'm just afraid that it might not happen exactly when you thought it would."

John's voice interrupted all of our thoughts as the cold, night air rustled through the cabin. "How many are we expecting?" I honestly did not want to know the answer to that.

"Half a dozen!" Sherlock replied with his head still outside.

"Brilliant." My scoff was loud enough for the whole party to catch.

"Who _are_ they?" John nearly laughed as he spoke the question. He just wanted to go to Brighton with Mary. Was it really that much to ask? Now he was stuck in a shooting, and little did he know, he was actually going to Paris.

"A wedding present," Sherlock snickered. "From Moriarty." Mary's head snapped towards me in fear. I took her arms in mine for some form of support. Words failed me. "Lovely wedding ceremony, by the way!" Holmes interrupted our bond. "Many a tear shed in joy!"

She sighed and turned away from Sherlock. "Oh, John!"

Sherlock must have caught the peeved glare I sent him. "I'm sorry." He shrugged with a whisper. "I thought it would lighten the mood."

Before any of us could get another word in, John was firing at more men down the hallway. "Just a minute, darling!" I wished that I could be of help, but once again, I found myself without a weapon and without motivation. What did Sherlock have in store for Mary? Was she to go to Paris as well? And on that note, what did he have in store for _me_? If he wanted me to fight then why did he not supply me with a gun?

I was too preoccupied with my thoughts to notice Sherlock holding Mary tightly in his grasp. When I finally caught sight of the strange scene, I did not let the confusion disperse. "Sherlock? What are you…?"

"Do you trust me?" He was completely ignoring my question. All of his focus was on the new bride before him.

Her voice was as firm as the gun in John's hand. "_No_!"

"Well then I shall…" Sherlock's eyes glanced towards Watson who was obviously too preoccupied to be focusing on anyone else but his targets. "… have to do something about that."

"What?" I nearly shrieked. My whole body inched closer, but it was already too late.

He was throwing Mary out of the window.

She was there. I blinked. She was gone. Completely gone. I would have screamed at the top of my lungs if it weren't for Sherlock's tight clamp over my mouth. We were both situated dangerously close to the edge. His body was pressed firmly against mine, and he had the advantage as my torso leaned over the threshold. His hands smelled like gunpowder under my nose.

Something strange was happening at that moment. He was shoving me closer towards the edge until I had to hold onto both sides of the door for protection. He was trying to push me over? The look of horror I gave him must have been enough to touch his soft spot. What kind of monster was he?

"Don't scream!" He whispered harshly before taking his hands from my mouth.

I did as I was ordered, but I could not stop to ask the question. "_Why_?" Anyone else might have seen him as a murderer, but I could see the pain and struggle lying beneath his eyes. I knew he was going to push me. He was much stronger than I. The only choice I had was the icy water. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because…" He began to speak, but his eyes tauntingly pulled away from me. Whatever he was about to say looked more painful on his face than the cuts he had received in the sewer.

What could grieve him so much that he was reduced to shoving me out of a train? Was I really that bad of a companion?

"Sherlock!" I repeated harshly under my breath. The water beneath us was almost gone. The bridge was nearly over. He was going to push me, whether I liked it or not. And I didn't have much time. "Sherlock, why are you doing this?"

There was another pause of hesitation. His eyes struggled to stay connected with mine. I watched as they darted all around me, but never on my actual face. When he finally answered my question, his eyes were sealed shut.

"Because I love you!"

I did not have time to feel anything else. His arms pulled away from me. The warmth of them was gone. Before I knew it, I was drowning in a river of ice.

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

**Did anyone catch the Kisses of Ten chapter 4 reference? (:**

**Please review. xx**


	9. Breaking the Barriers

**Woah-hoh-hooooh! Hey everyone! Thanks for the wait. I've just moved into Univeristy a couple of days ago, so I'm getting things settled. I just want to say thank you SO MUCH for all of your support. As for the AMAZING honor bestowed upon me by Sherly-Girl, I am totally at your will. Your review brought tears to my eyes and I couldn't quite comprehend what was reality for a second. I would really like to get in touch with you some other way besides fanfiction? It's just difficult because you're an anonymous user. ): If you want my contact information, please feel free to private message me, OR…**

**For any of you that have tumblr accounts, feel free to follow me:**

_**Infinitesymphony**_

**If you read this story and you DO follow me on my tumblr, toss me a message so I can see how many of you are out there. I was thinking about putting up story updates on tumblr to keep you updated. But I only want to do that if people out there are actually on tumblr. **

**So, let the fun begin.**

**Guess what?**

**He loves her.**

**Or does he?**

**~Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

Nothing is as pleasing as being held by hands of velvet or getting wrapped up entirely by smooth, clear fingers. You tumble down and down into their arms until you are content enough to stay there forever.

Soaking wet. Freezing cold. Completely calm.

Until, reality sinks in and your lungs are turning against you.

I could feel the icy water surrounding every one of my limbs. The water was still in the middle of the night and I sunk deeper into bliss. However, I knew that I could not remain there for hours, no matter how wonderful that sounded.

My whole body swam back up towards the surface. Though the silence was soothing, it had to be broken with a sputtering gasp. Droplets fell from my lashes and distorted the view of my surroundings. Everything was dark. I could hardly see a thing. My brain urged me to go and find the nearest shore, but somehow that wasn't the main focus on my mind.

He loved me.

Sherlock Holmes _loved _me, and he had said it to me as clear as anyone ever could.

Naturally, it wasn't the most romantic situation, but when it came to Sherlock Homes, one could not hope for such a luxury. Though I could have dreamt about him all evening, I had to force myself back into reality. My eyes darted about the eerie river, searching for any sign of life. I was alone. There was no one else.

"Mary!" I gasped in sudden realization. Frantically, I began to paddle around in search for a strawberry head poking from the water. It didn't take too long for my nerves to relax themselves. A boat was pulling up towards my side.

"You look a bit startled! I'm quite surprised, Miss Adkins. You know Sherly's character so well, I presumed you would have seen that one coming!" Mycroft's voice was impossible not to recognize, even in the blackness of the nightfall.

"I'm… I'm still not quite sure why he did it," I muttered softly. Every inch of me wanted to scream, 'He loves me!' but I knew it was not the best time. No one seemed to notice the growing pink in my face. Could they see it? Could they see that he loved me?

Carruthers reached out to take hold of my hands, which I gave him very shakily. With a firm tug and a scoot of my heavily soaked dress, I found myself lying on the floor of the tiny boat. No part of me wanted to get up. I was perfectly comfortable where I was.

"He's not going to get away with this."

Mary's voice took me by surprise and I turned sharply to my right to see her bundled up on the wooden seat. Mycroft only smiled at this response. He knew better than she did. His brother always got away with things, no matter how insane they were.

"Perhaps he did it for your own safety," Mycroft interrupted. "Sherlock may be as big of a fool as they come, but believe it or not, he has a heart in there somewhere." Mycroft laughed amusedly after he said this. "Don't quote me on that."

The mere mention of Sherlock's heart got my head into a tizzy and I could not stop the words softly falling from my lips. "He loves me."

I saw Mary's eyes dart down towards my face before she scrunched up her nose. "What did you just say?"

"Nothing!" My eyes sealed. My lips were freezing in the bitterness of the English cold. There was no way that I was going to repeat myself. Even though I wanted to shout it to the world, it was a secret I could hold onto for a bit longer. A secret that was all mine, safe and protected unlike so many other things.

Though I wasn't speaking aloud, my voice resonated in my thoughts.

_He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. _

~.~.~.~.~.~

It did not take long to arrive at Mycroft's vintage estate near Chichester. The place was familiar to me and my previous bed looked readily agreeable. As cold and tired as I was, my eyelids refused to seal me into my dreams. I tried to get some rest, but it would not come. Sleep had better places to be. Totally awake, my body trailed over towards a mirror in the corner of the room. I looked tired with my red nose and damp hair. The circles beneath my eyes were not dark, but nearly pure black. My knotted hair hung limply over one shoulder. There was nothing striking about me. Without any effort, I was plain. And yet, he saw me differently.

He loved me.

Did he think I was beautiful?

Did he think of me as often as I did of him?

My fingers trailed over my twisted strands of hair. Sherlock told me he was fond of it when I wore it loose. Soon I would be twenty-six. Maybe it was time for a change. Perhaps the bun was ready to leave the nest.

Before I could give myself any compliments, the creaking of my door took all of my attention away. "Do you mind if I come in?" Mary's voice croaked as if she had just woken up. "I can't seem to catch any sleep."

I could not contain my smile. At least I wasn't the only one with troubles on my mind. "Do come in!" Mary looked just as tired, but I could see something different about her character. Her eyes were puffy and pink; a clear indication that she had been locked up with her tears. "Is everything alright?"

"It never is," she laughed. "John is with his _real_ wife. Part of me believes that he'll return to me. He will never leave this nonsense behind." She shook her head before turning away. Meeting my face was too embarrassing for her. "I know better than that, but my point still stands. He won't come back until things are settled."

"He _will_ return to you. I'm sure of it." Though I said my words firmly, neither of us believed me. John was with Sherlock now. Mary was safe. The duo would not be able to part until the case was solved. "If you want me to speak plainly, I myself am quite hurt by it all. You are not alone in your feelings."

"_Are _you?" Her pale brows came together in her forehead.

My body found the edge of my bed with comfort. Mary made her way beside me, as quietly as a light breeze. "Yes, I am upset. Sherlock was always so straightforward about having me work beside him. He was planting potential in me that I did not believe I had. Now he has gone and tossed it all away." A comfortable silence took over us. "I wonder if it was all for nothing."

"It wasn't," Mary offered gently. "He did it took keep you safe. I believe he's quite fond of you." My eyes danced up towards hers, but she was focused on the window before us. Before I could regain my senses, my tongue nearly betrayed me. The truth almost came out, but I stopped and remembered my composure.

Why was I so afraid to tell Mary the truth?

It was because I didn't believe it.

"Mary…" My voice was hardly audible, but she caught it in our close proximity. "Can I tell you something? You don't have to respond, but I fear that if I do not speak plainly, I will regret it."

"You can tell me."

How could I say it? How does one start? Speaking the words was not as simple as I had hoped. My head turned away as I struggled to grasp the proper phrases. I felt like a schoolgirl who just had her first kiss. Only, this was much more challenging. "He said that…"

"Yes?"

"Well, I'm not sure if he…" My shoulders scrunched up in discomfort. I was so fearful of Mary's reaction. I did not want a lecture. I did not want her to tell me that he was lying. He may have said it to startle me. All the more easily to shove me from the train. "He told me that he… Well, that he _loved_ me." Saying it was like sugar on my tongue, but I kept my flutters inward.

I didn't think anyone had ever been so shocked in their life. Her jaw robotically fell from its hold before her pale fingers flew over her lips. I could see the disbelief in her eyes, but it soon morphed into joy. "Renadale Adkins! I never thought I would see this day!"

"How supportive of you." My sarcasm was overwhelming.

"Did he _really_ say such a thing? Oh, he didn't!" She laughed despite herself. "When did he confess? That's all very strange, considering he tossed you from a moving train!"

"Once again, your sympathy is remarkable."

Mary could not keep her grins under wraps, though I was far from gaining one. She startled me when her hands wrapped around my own. It was as if all of her previous worries were vanished. "Renadale, I'm sorry. You know how I must be feeling, surely? Sherlock Holmes is not a man to make such confessions. He would not put the burden on himself if he doesn't truly feel that way."

Hearing her words was like breathing life into a dead man. My face lit up in a matter of seconds. "Oh, Mary!" It was difficult to keep my voice from cracking under the sudden news. "Do you mean it? You know him too, and yet you think it is so?"

"Renadale, you must heed my advice." Her voice grew more serious. "The main question is not of his affections for you. It's whether or not _you_ love _him_."

Mary couldn't have put it more bluntly, but inwardly, I thanked her for it. She was right, was she not? When someone confesses their love to another, the whole universe waits for a response. There is no hope in loving if not to be loved equally in return. And I never got the chance to say it.

"He has no idea…" The idea tauntingly began to trickle down my mind. Sherlock Holmes made his heart known, but I never got the proper opportunity to accept or decline. Did he know already? Or, was it far worse? Perhaps he thought that I did not feel the same, and therefore threw me from the train to separate us. If that were so, he was wrong. He was so terribly wrong. "Mary, I have to find them. I can't leave him like this."

The corner of her lip curled up slyly. "Good luck with that. The second they arrive to a place, they leave before their dinner can get cold."

"They're going to Paris," I recalled. "Sherlock told me ahead of time. It was a stupid mistake on his part, if he honestly thought that I wouldn't go after him."

"Are you sure you want to?" Trepidation briefly passed over Mary's face. "I just don't want to see all three of you gone. Losing one of you would be bad enough, but the thought of _all _of you disappearing makes me nervous." She did not need to tell me. The fear was clear in her eyes. "Not to mention, Mycroft Holmes puts me on edge. He is as strange of a creature as his younger brother."

I tried my hardest not to laugh aloud. At least she had never seen him naked. "Take a train back to London. I know that you are eager to be with John, but he will arrive home soon. He _will _be safe." She did not believe my words, nor did she want to follow them. "If something happens, John will listen to me. I can convince him to come back to you."

Mary's porcelain face began to look cracked. She was just as tired as her husband, yet hers was more internal. Her first response was a small smile directed towards the carpeted floor. "I only wish he didn't need convincing."

I realized then how harsh my words must have sounded. Who was a husband that needed pressure to return to his wife? We both knew that John was not that sort of person, but my words were already in the air. The tension was too strong to dissipate. I went to reach for her, but she stood up before my fingers could take her hand. I knew. I knew she was crying as she headed towards the door. "Have a good sleep, Mary." There was no confidence in my voice. There was nothing else I could say.

She did not reply. I thought there might have been a whispered gratitude, but if there had been, it was covered with the clicking of the door.

~.~.~.~.~.~

While I was in the Chichester region, I thought I might allow myself some time to reflect on the unsettled case.

That is, when I wasn't thinking about Sherlock Holmes.

The only boat to Paris was the next day in the early afternoon. John and Sherlock would have to be on that ship, and so would I. Seasickness was one of my most hated opponents, but we would have to battle it out once again. I presumed he would be the winner.

I knew that the boys would be unhappy to see me, but I cared little for their approval. I was a grown woman. My legs would follow no ordered words from their lips. They were not going to push me around.

Or off of trains, for that matter.

My broken boots filled with dirt as I made my way down the main square. It was a busy day, and everyone went about as normal. Part of me was disgusted by the daily life, because it was only a short while ago that a bomb had gone off in that same piazza. And yet, life moved on as it always did. Street beggars shoved their unwashed hands towards the rich, and the rich spat back at them. Shopkeepers cleaned their windows and children peeked inside with peculiar eyes.

None of them knew the danger that engulfed them. None of them knew that a war was coming. And it was all because of a short, red-haired man. Professor James Moriarty.

I tried my hardest to push away the idea of him. When his image appeared in my head, nothing but guilt washed over me. Embarrassment formed in my throat and stopped all of my words. My hero was a murderer. He cared for no one but himself.

And pigeons.

Like I had practiced, I distracted myself with something else. My feet were taking me towards the library; my place of solitude. I had woken with a mission of discovering more about the Illuminati. There had to be _something_ in the shelves that would be useful to the previous case. If I discovered more about the symbols, I could perhaps crack a code. If the code was cracked, then I might be able to find a society or particular person who killed the government men. Sherlock might have forgotten, but I was determined to know who he was.

In fact, I was so obsessed with the idea that I had hardly noticed when I nearly clashed into someone. I kept my head down and mumbled my apologies as fast as I could. My victim stood quietly without uttering a word or moving an inch. With a scoff, I continued on my way.

When I finally entered the tall-ceilinged hall, my feet instantly took me towards the nonfiction section. Though I knew very little about it, Illuminati societies were quite a scandal. There would have to be one or two documents on it. Conspiracy theories began to surround me as I quietly shuffled down the rows of books. Each spine was fresh and unbent. Either the stories were new, or many people did not care much about secret Bavarian associations.

However, as I began to come to the end of the line, a specific book caught my eye. _The Reign of Illumination. _My fingers snapped towards it quickly, flicking open the pages like a child at Christmas. The information given was just what I needed. I saw previous histories, relevant alphabets and symbols. Everything that I needed was there.

Apparently someone else needed it too.

Scribbles and notes lined the edges of the page. Each symbol written in the book had a note on it, and for some reason the writing struck me as familiar. "What?" My fingers continued to flick back the paper until I reached the cover. There wasn't a page or line unblemished. Who had wanted this as much as I did?

My nose rose towards the outwards spine. The scent of ink hit me, and I knew it had not been long since someone had scribbled down those words. Confusion was glued to my face as I stared at the cover in my hands. Was Moriarty the one who took it? No. That was not possible. He was in London and had no business in Chichester. Not to mention, he would never be that obvious.

But, if it wasn't him, who could it have been?

"You look like you're thinking very hard. Be careful not to hurt yourself too much."

The book tumbled from my hands as the final words were spoken directly in my ear. I spun around to say my excuses, but was stopped at the sight of a familiar face. His eyes were wide as they stared into mine, and his smile was crooked and cheeky as it had always been. "Are you following me?" My voice rose in the soundless halls. Thomas took an inch forward, placing his warm finger over my lips.

"Come, come, Renadale." His voice was almost provocative as he whispered, but I knew that it was just his way of speaking. "We're in a library. This is a place of solitude. Surely you know that you should be a bit quieter."

Before I stormed from the area, I made sure to scoop up the book I had dropped. I turned on my heels and headed for the reception desk, all the while feeling his feet practically on the hem of my dress. How unbelievable of him! He could have said his greetings like a normal person. Things would have gone on splendidly if he had done so. Naturally, Thomas had to make everything a game. Unable to get the irritation out of my fingers, I slammed the book down onto the reception table. "I want this book."

The young librarian's face was startled with my confrontational manner. Her blue eyes grew wide as she glanced between Thomas and I. "D-Do you have a membership with this library?"

_Damn it._ "No," I grumbled. "Can I just borrow it for the day? I'll return it back to you." It was clear that I was not convincing enough. I had never been a good liar.

"She's with me," Thomas smiled. "This is my wife. The name is Thomas Smith. Have her take it out under my account, will you?" Before I could protest, Thomas's arm found its way around my shoulders. He pulled me closer to him, the side of his body warming up against mine.

The woman did her work swiftly while her eyes continued to glance up towards the man at my hip. Her cheeks were flustered. It was not from my aggression, but from the striking gentleman standing before her. His deep, soft voice was certainly enticing to her ear. Americans. Somehow they were like Gods, no matter who they were. She could have him for all I cared.

"Thank you." I did not try to hide the disapproval in my voice as she handed the book back to me. Perhaps she believed herself to be admiring my husband, but I was really more upset with the fact that she assumed we were wed. I subtly shoved Thomas away from my side before rushing towards the door.

"Now, wait just a second!" My ears tried to escape from his voice, but my arm was unable to stop his grasp. "Renadale, why are you suddenly so worried?" He laughed as he spoke. Though he spun me around, I refused to look at him. "We left on good terms. Every time I think we're fine, you come back just to spite me. I'm finally getting over you and here you are! I half wonder if you plan it all out just to torment me." His eyes rolled up towards the heavens. "God Almighty, what do you want me to do with this woman?"

"Nothing. He wants you to do _nothing_ with me." Grumpily, I poked his silk tie with a warning finger. "I'm leaving tomorrow and I just needed a book. Which, by the way, is going to get you a mark on your card. I never planned on giving it back."

"Yes," he smiled. "I figured you'd be getting that book sooner or later. As for the mark, I'm sure the receptionist will let me off easy." He tossed me a quick wink.

The handwriting. His cunning smirk. It all made sense as I watched his composure falter. "_You_ were the one who took these notes?" His response was a pearly smile. "Why? What interest do you have in all of this?"

Thomas almost looked offended by my words. I was made certain of it when he brushed past me with a grunt. Now it was my turn to follow. "You come here asking me a question that I couldn't answer. Why else would I be writing notes in that book? I wanted to understand. I wanted to give you a proper reply."

"Yes, but don't you have other things to do? _Better_ things?" I tried to make myself sound calmer. "I'm just curious as to why you still care about the case. Even Sherlock has forgotten about it."

Thomas paused near a fountain in the square. Flicks of water were falling softly onto his curls, and with the sun gently lingering behind him, he almost looked angelic. His frown stole away any happiness. "Peoples lives are important to me, believe it or not. I study symbols and work with archeologists, geologists, and historians. Don't you think I'd be slightly interested in a murder case dealing with ancient societies?" His thick brows rose to his smooth forehead. "You might be surprised that I have a wide range of interests, Miss Adkins." I shuddered as he used my formal name. "Not to mention, you didn't properly finish the case. I was just seeing if I could be of any more help if you happened to return to it."

My lips defied me as they swooped into a grin. "That's very kind of you, Thomas." He was still upset about my cold attitude from before. He could only manage to brush off my sudden gratitude with a flick of his wrist. "I mean it. Sherlock gave up on the case because we presume the murderer is dead, but I'm still itching to know who it was. It's strange to not have closure on something that seems so important at the time."

Nothing could have made my heart stop quite as fast as the look he gave me. His eyes tormented me with memories of late nights, rolling hills, and hidden smiles passed between crowds of people. Though the sun was shining, the day was cold and I watched as his lips began to turn white. They did not move much when he finally spoke. "Yes. Getting what you want can be the greatest happiness in life." I swallowed firmly as I read into his subtext. "Yes, I think that's very true indeed."

Quickly, I tried to change the subject. "Do you want to talk to me about it? I mean, did you discover anything while you were reading?"

Typical of the ever-changing British weather, a slight rain began to tumble down upon us. Thomas only nodded his head before the droplets grew and we headed towards the nearest pub.

~.~.~.~.~.~

I should have known that I would run into Thomas Smith. Naturally, it was an odd coincidence with the size of the city, but with my luck it was exactly what would have happened. And though I was in the company of my first love, my present affections did not flicker from my mind. Not even for a second.

Thomas held a beer tightly in his hands. I watched him awkwardly from across the table, remembering times when we would sit around the fire and get to know one another. His skin was softer when we had meet and his eyes were clear of dark circles. There had always been nonchalance on his face, but as I sat opposite him years later, I knew time had not been at its kindest. And yet, he was still so charming.

"It's difficult for me to explain." Thomas's voice distracted me. "You were right about the Illuminati, but what you said about the caduceus is still a bit unnerving."

I had just finished explaining to him all of the symbols we had seen. The Illuminati clearly connected to Moriarty, but what about the snakes? What did that have to do with anything? "Everything is so much deeper than we thought," I sipped a bit of my tea before it grew hot on my tongue. "Sherlock is so wrapped up with getting Moriarty out of the picture that he seems to have forgotten about everything else."

"'Getting him out of the picture'?" Thomas's voice was suddenly filled with concern. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"I'm not sure. That's the worst part."

Sherlock never said what would happen if we were to confront James Moriarty. Would he kill him? Not without a fight. Would he expose him? I doubted it. That would draw too much attention to Sherlock's reclusive nature.

Thomas spoke up again, this time with more eagerness. "Well, what about hospitals? Caduceus can be found within medical fields. Does he have anything to do with doctors?" I shook my head. Nothing we had ever done related to infirmaries. Thomas pondered for a bit longer before another burst of surprise crossed his face. "Cemeteries!"

"Excuse me?"

"You can find those symbols on many tombstones. What if it has to do with a specific grave?" I knew Thomas was right, but the idea seemed outlandish. If it _did_ have to do with a grave, where was I supposed to start? "Maybe you shouldn't go to Paris. Your best bet might be the London Cemetery."

I rolled my eyes. "Paris or the London Cemetery… that doesn't exactly sound like a difficult decision." Thomas shrugged defensively. "In any case, I have to go and meet John and Sherlock tomorrow. There's no time to head back to London. Maybe I can send Mary to look at it, though I'm sure she'll just want to rest."

Thomas perked up at the sight of my willpower. "Why do you have to _do_ anything? You're nearly twenty-six, Renadale. I'm pretty sure you can make decisions for yourself." _He remembered my birthday._ Thankfully, he didn't catch the small gasp I let loose upon this flattery. He simply stared into the bottom of his cup as he consumed more alcohol. Something struck me as odd. He never used to drink. He always said it damaged his gentlemanly figure. Yet, I watched with reserve as he drank his beer with a firm amount of determination.

"Thomas, are you alright?"

He stopped in the midst of a sip before quietly returning his stein back to its coaster. Words were about to fall from his mouth; potentially heart breaking ones. I braced myself for the worst. "I'm perfectly fine," he said softly. My shoulders dropped a bit with relaxation. "You know, honestly, this is just the way things are. I've come to realize that I need to accept it." My fingers automatically shot out towards his. I knew that I might be giving him the wrong idea, but I let him have it. Just for a moment. For a second. His fingers traced the insides of mine. His gaze was fixated on the wrinkles near my knuckles, and his fingers were as cold as ice. I could not turn away from his face. The hurt that lingered there was enough to shatter the roughest heart. It didn't take long for him to push my hand away. "I'm not yours, anymore." He managed to put some joy into his voice. "You are happily matched, though it does worry me."

"Does it?" I laughed. "I suppose it rightly should. He has an odd way of doing things. Some even say he's not in his right mind." Though it might have sounded potentially degrading, the thought of Sherlock's oddities brought warmth into my heart. With my imagination, I could feel the roughness of his hand in my own.

Thomas nodded his head slowly. "None of us are, are we? He's just got the worst of it, I suppose." I knew Thomas was not making fun of Sherlock Holmes. People admired Sherlock Holmes, no matter how mad he drove you. "Renadale, can I ask you something? Does he love you? I mean, has he ever said it?"

_Oh no._

My shoulders hunched up again as my eyes began to dart about uncomfortably. I wasn't ashamed of telling people, but it was a personal thing. And Thomas Smith was a _different_ personal matter. Colliding those two seemed like the start of a very bad nightmare. I also wasn't entirely sure if he did love me. He shoved me from a train right after he said it. That didn't give me a lot of reassurance.

"Yes." My palms began to drip with sweat and I folded them neatly together in my lap. "Yes, he had said it before."

Thomas instantly lifted his brows. It was clear that he was not expecting that response. Some hurt might have been relevant on his face, but it was more shock than anything else. "Well, bravo for him!" He whispered incredulously. "He's certainly made a fine decision, I'll tell you that much."

My eyes narrowed into sharp slits. "Thomas…"

"I'm being honest." He shrugged casually with another swig of his booze. "You cannot condemn a man for that."

_No, _I thought to myself. _But I can certainly dislike him for it. _

~.~.~.~.~.~

**Thanks for reading! A pretty slow chapter, I know. But, things will get quicker eventually. Back and forth, back and forth.**

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	10. The Heart of a Fool

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**Oh, and I started Uni! So, that's why it took me a while to update this. Hope you all enjoy the new chapter! **

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**~Mistro~**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

Thomas did not live far from Mycroft Holmes. He invited me to take the carriage back to his abode in order to continue our discussion and take a look at some more research he collected. I did not argue. Watching him drip the booze down his throat was getting tiresome. He was not the Thomas I remembered.

The carriage ride was quiet, for the most part, until after about ten minutes of quiet thoughts, Thomas spoke up. "He _really _said he loved you?" Disbelief was hard to hide from his voice, even as the coach rumbled over the huge gravel.

"Yes," I said firmly. I failed to mention that I never said it back, or that Holmes had only said it once. I also was sure to leave out the fact that Sherlock's words were not entirely set in stone. The idea of him saying that to have a swift rid of me taunted at my mind. Thomas could never know those things.

He only laughed in response. The idea was obviously amusing to him, but as he silently bit his nails with a prolonged gaze out the window, I could tell he was bothered. He had never said it to me. He had never kissed me. He never properly asked me to marry him. Sherlock Holmes was winning. And Thomas? Well, Thomas couldn't stand it.

"How is his brother?" His voice came out of the blue. His eyes were fixated firmly on me with genuine curiosity, but I knew he was just trying to break the ice. My only response was a long glance before I turned back towards the window. "Are you ignoring me?"

"You ask these questions to jeer at me," I mumbled. "You do not care about the Holmes brothers. You never have, nor will you."

Thomas sighed heavily. His fingers fiddled with the brim of his bowler hat before he managed to release another chuckle in the enclosed space. "Renadale, can't you see that I'm trying to be friendly? You must know that I'm jealous." Begrudgingly honest. That was the Thomas Smith I knew.

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"I understand you better than you understand yourself." My eyes snapped towards him. They held no previous warmth. "It was true back then, and it is still true to this day."

"Really?" Instead of being offended, Thomas seemed genuinely intrigued. He leaned forward a bit with twinkling eyes. My body curled away from him as much as possible. "Deduce me, Renadale. I want you to tell me what you see. Play those little games that Sherlock is so good at."

Normally, I would have shrugged off this request and gone right back to the rolling countryside. However, Thomas was pushing his limits. I could smell the alcohol on his breath and see the sleepless nights with the blink of his eyes. It was time for him to wake up. It was time to return him back to the rouge man I once knew. "Ever since I've left, my memory has haunted you. You have so many regrets about us that you've slowly turned to alcohol and God knows what else."

Thomas's smooth face crinkled as he knitted his brows. "You can tell that all just by looking at me? How do you know if it's true?"

"I don't need to look at you," I mumbled. "I can smell it on your breath." Thomas sat back in offense, clearly embarrassed by his new habits. His composure retorted towards his unpolished shoes: another strange change of character. "You've also been writing. I assume they have been letters. One who has your job does not require taking that many notes."

"Letters," he smirked. "How could you possible manage to find out that one?"

"I can tell by the darkness of your fingertips." My eyes could not trail away from his black skin. His hands shrunk further into their sleeves, as he grew weary of my wandering eyes. "Who are you writing letters to, Thomas? You've obviously been frustrated about it, because I can tell that you've scrubbed your hands many times over. They're soft and clean, despite the stains." When I had taken his hands in mine back at the pub, I instantly knew. A researcher's hands were always rough. His had been surprisingly soft. I wasn't used to them being that way, so it obviously grabbed my attention at the first instant. "Well? Are you going to tell me who the letters were to?"

"We're here." His response was sharp as the carriage pulled to a halt. He did not even look at me as he kicked open the door furiously with his boot. His body disappeared from sight, and there was no hand to help me down. I wasn't used to being treated like a lady with most people, but Thomas had never failed to make me feel like a princess. This cold dismissal stung at my heart. My apologies were about to fall from my lips, but it was too late. He was already marching his way inside.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Thomas managed to ease up a bit when I put my smiling face on. It was a bit forced, but if it made the situation less uncomfortable, then grinning until my cheeks hurt was my only option.

As Thomas gathered his research notes for me, I left myself to wander about the living room. The chairs were vintage, yet elegant, and no doubt expensive. There was a minimalistic feel to the place, which very much described the archeologist's character. He was rich, but showing it was not his main concern. A photograph of his mother and father stood on the mantelpiece alongside a stunning Chinese vase. A smile secretly passed my lips. _Perhaps he hasn't changed as much as I thought._

"So, here we have it!" Thomas's voice interrupted my thoughts as he tumbled in the room. There were so many books clamped between his hands, I could hardly see his struggling face. "These are all of the resources I've managed to gather along the way. Hopefully they'll be of some use. I'm terrified to look at my library fees."

I gasped at the sight of it all. Thomas was besieged in a mound of documents, and rightly so. There might have been twenty books in his arms, but I soon lost count. "Heavens, Thomas! Have you really been that bored since I left?"

"Yes," he said with a chuckle. The books were instantly thrown onto a nearby couch, their pages flying open in all different directions. _Not only will you have a late fee, but a damage fee,_ I couldn't help but think to myself. "Then again, I don't complain when I get to shut myself away with a pile of books."

His words brought a smile to my face. "Neither do I."

We began to set out on our quiet tasks. Thomas showed me a few interesting histories of the Illuminati, but nothing I thought would be useful. As time passed, the sun trickled further down the sky. I watched it carefully before it went completely out of sight. I could feel my tired eyes reading words without any comprehension; I finally closed a book before setting my fatigued gaze on Thomas.

"Are you alright?" His mutter was spoken without so much as a glance at me. "Your stare could be felt from miles away."

"Do you think this is foolish?"

As he lifted his head, the confusion was hard to hide in his face. "You're trying to find a man that killed many innocent people. In my book, that's not exactly foolish. Most people would have the sense to deem that as _noble_."

His words were comforting, but not enough to convince me. "I can't help but wonder why Sherlock would have dropped it so easily. If he didn't think if it was important, then why should I?" Sherlock's dog-like eyes came trickling back into my memory. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I would reunite with him. Whether he liked it or not. "He's so brilliant. If there was any cause to look further into it, he would have. Maybe I should just forget all of this."

"Renadale, I want you to tell me everything you know about this case." Thomas leaned forward in his leather chair. It squeaked beneath him, disturbing the unsettling silence that followed.

When I finally allowed myself to speak, it was not without hesitation. "We assumed that the murderer was most likely young. He wasn't careful, and he ended up paying the price for it." Thomas nodded his head, a signal for me to continue. "If he _was_ young, then he probably didn't have a high status. Someone must have hired him."

"Why?" Thomas already knew the answer, but I knew he was just testing me.

"A young man would not be the head of a society, particularly one as big as the Illuminati. Someone was trying to find a cheap way out. And considering that most men who are involved with groups such as the Illuminati are wealthy, it's reasonable to assume that he made his employer unhappy."

"You think that his employer got rid of him?"

I nodded my head slowly, the idea becoming more sensible in my mind. "I have a feeling that he's dead. I don't think the employer just fired him. After all, someone of a higher status wouldn't want any traces left behind."

_No loose ends._

My entire body shot up in my seat.

_No loose ends._

I could hardly get a thought out of my mouth while those three words bounced on the walls of my brain. Thomas noticed my sudden spark of awareness. His body shot up from the chair with unrepressed excitement. "What is it?" His words were rushed. "What have you discovered?"

"James Moriarty," I mumbled into a near whisper. "Could he have been the one to kill the boy?" Thomas watched as the ideas turned over in my mind. "The pieces go together. Moriarty is a huge figure all over the world, particularly in France and Germany. He has so many connections, that nothing would ever trace back to him. No one _except_ Sherlock Holmes. And, considering Sherlock Holmes was already onto him, he had to hire someone else. Someone worthless." And then there was the most obvious point of all. "He was fascinated with the Illuminati. Whenever someone recently brought it up, he became nervous. I've seen it for myself." The memories of his attitude at the lecture started to replay in my mind.

"You think it was Moriarty who killed the boy?" Thomas seemed genuinely surprised, but little did he know how dangerous that man was. "I always thought he was a smart one."

"He _is_! That's why he gets away with so much." My expression must have turned dark, because fear began to dribble over Thomas's handsome face. "He's dangerous, Thomas. He's a threat to us all."

Thomas literally stepped back with trepidation. He knew that I wasn't one to mess about, and my words were as serious as they would ever be. "A threat? In what way?"

The words could barely come from my lips. "_War_, Thomas… He's throwing a war upon our heads and we don't even know it."

"War?" Thomas almost laughed. "I know that France and Germany aren't inviting one another over for tea, but you mean to suggest that the entire world will get involved? I'll tell you one thing; America will stay out of it."

He might have thought it ridiculous, but the idea was out there, and nothing else made sense. Moriarty knew his aim. He knew where the money was. War. Not just a year's war, or a war between brothers, but the entire world. He was going to put us all in the ground while his pockets grew and grew.

"He will have us in our graves in the next few years, if he can manage it." My voice was cold. "And if Sherlock _does _stop him, it will already be too late. He's planted the idea of war inside of society's head. It's growing with every minute; with every bomb that continues to go off."

"America won't take part," Thomas's voice was clear as he repeated himself. "They've already discussed the fact that a war outside of their grounds is not of their concern."

"It _will_ be their concern. Come what may, America will eventually have to choose a side as well." Thomas winced at my words, but he knew what I said was right. I could not convince myself that I was jumping to conclusions. War was literally being laid like bricks. You just had to know where to look.

The bombs. The weapon supply growing. France and Germany at one another's throats. War was inevitable.

"Thomas, I have to go."

My colleague's face twisted rather sourly as his hand reached for my arm. It was the first time he had touched me since the pub, and I could not help but reminisce for a mere moment. "Must you?" There was nothing lush about this statement. He was lonely. There was not even a butler to take care of that huge house. Thomas Smith was alone; the one thing no one ever expected him to be.

Bitterly, I nodded my head. The sun was flickering to its last breath. In a few minutes, it would be time for the moon to take the stage. If I was going to Paris the next day, sleep was what I needed. "You will see me soon, Thomas Smith."

The shock on his face was nearly comical. "Why?"

"When this case is over; when Sherlock stops Moriarty, I am going to bring him back with me. The three of us are going to finish what still lingers." I tried to sound as determined as I could. However, with James Moriarty in the picture, it was difficult to plan your next steps. "I will find that boy, even if it takes me months."

Thomas gave an honest smile at my headstrong decision. "I'll be looking forward to it."

After sliding on my well-worn coat, I said my quick farewells and headed towards the door. There was no more awkward tension between us; darker thoughts consumed our minds. As I was heading back towards town, Thomas's voice called out to me from the doorway.

"Just remember, Renadale! The caduceus! Don't forget about the snakes!"

_Snakes. _

Slithering. Rough. Eyes like Satan's. His words sent shivers up my spine, but I nodded back at him nonetheless. And, as I glanced towards the growing moon, I could not help but see a serpent's pupil piercing straight into my soul.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Ten o' clock could not have come sooner. My eyes barely kept shut throughout the entire night, while Mary remained depressed in her nearby room. She was getting too much sleep; I was getting too little.

I did not even bother to take note of the bags beneath my eyes when the hand of my clock finally reached its destination. My legs flew over the side of the bed, still sore from when I hit the freezing water two nights earlier. Quivering hands tossed a navy dress over my head. A reunion was headed my way, but I was not going to get dressed up. Sherlock Holmes had seen me in far worse conditions. There was only thing I wanted him to see.

That I loved him.

My lips broke into a smile as the thought filtered inside my head. "I love you," I whispered. I repeated it aloud until it sounded normal, but nothing seemed to fit. Sometimes, it was too high. Then it became too low. At one point, I fear I sounded rather furious. "Ah, well," I sighed happily. "I'll say it perfectly when the time is right."

Thoughts of the night before were already distant. They were still important in my heart, but my heart was a bit more preoccupied with something else. I couldn't stop my hands from shaking when they finally tugged back the handle of my door. They only stopped when I got a glimpse of what awaited me on the other side.

"Mycroft!" My scream rang out in the high-ceilinged hallway, and it was not a split second later that I slammed the door shut, very much to his disapproval. Unfortunately, the _incident _had repeated itself.

Mycroft Holmes wasn't wearing any clothes.

"_Why_?" I mumbled to myself, pressing a hand against my hot forehead. "Why does he do these things?"

A friendly knocking came upon my door. "Oh, Renadale! Are you alright? You seemed to be in a flush. I just wanted to wish you a safe parting journey. Sherly told me how troublesome you are with boats. Do be good to my brother, despite the arrogant twit he can be."

Just as before, I could not help but laugh. It was utterly repulsive; my manners _and_ his, but the whole situation was so bizarre that I couldn't properly comprehend it in my mind. Poor Mary would have to deal with him on her own. She was in poor spirits enough as it was, and seeing me go would only make it harder. I did write her a letter, which I planned on handing over to Mycroft in the meantime.

However, I was not too keen on that idea any longer.

"Yes, Mycroft, thank you _so_ much!" My voice attempted to sound gleeful, but it still was spoken through bits of giggles. "Really, don't wait around for me. I've forgotten to do my makeup and I fear it will take ages."

I knew that he could tell I was lying between my teeth. There was a momentary silence before he sputtered up a cough. "Yes, well, alright. I do hope to see you soon! Take care!" There was another pause before I heard feet shuffling down the stairs. "Come along, Stanley!"

A minute passed before I was brave enough to open my door. Thankfully, Mycroft and his old butler had disappeared and I was left to slip my note beneath Mary's door. "Be well, my dear friend," I whispered quietly as the paper skidded from my sight. "John loves you. He will fight for you."

Those words I actually believed. There had been things I was trying to convince myself of; Thomas was all right. Moriarty was evil. Sherlock Holmes loved me. I could not be sure about any of those theories, but the promise I gave Mary at that moment was undoubtedly honest.

My time had finally come. I knew which port they were leaving out of, and I wasn't going to miss the ship for anything in the world. Bracing my small rucksack tightly in my arms, I managed to let out a shaky sigh.

"Sherlock Holmes…" My voice echoed in the halls as I spoke. "I love you."

And that time, it felt as pure and true as I had always felt it.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The sight of a dock is not exactly a pleasant one. Men are bustling about, smoke is wafting through the air, the smell of fish and sweat fills your nose even when you pinch it. And, worst of all, the water was the only thing that awaited you. I had had enough of water to last a lifetime.

After my coach dropped me off, I made sure to pay my fares and head off quickly towards a sign leading in the right direction. Signs for Paris were accordingly hung up, and with each step, my emotions grew.

First, it started in my legs. They began to feel as wobbly as if I were on board the ship, and I tried not to fall over with my sudden lack of air.

Then, it traveled straight to the bottom of my stomach. It was like someone had dug a knife right through my body and twisted it. Somehow, though I knew it was excitement, it hurt. Anticipation can often be misinterpreted as pain.

And lastly, it travelled all the way up my throat. Choking me, stopping my legs, making my arms curl around my chest with pain. _I can't do this. I can't go on this boat. I can't tell him that I love him._

And it wasn't because I didn't want to. I did. More than anything. Sherlock Holmes was the painter of my daydream murals. He was the composer of the happy tunes I started to sing. He was the love I had always wanted, but never gotten. He was ideal. And I cared for him with each part of my soul.

That was why it hurt so much.

Because, if he didn't love me back, it would tear me apart. I was sensitive. His heartbreaking words would sting me to the core. My heart had already been broken once. And now that the feelings were deeper, my heart would not break. It would shatter.

"Miss, are you going on this boat?"

I turned around with an audible gasp. Somehow, the recollection of where I was and where I was headed slipped past my mind. "Y-Yes," I managed to choke out. "Yes, this is my boat. I'm sorry for keeping the men waiting. My sea legs are not strong and I fear the waters."

The man had a friendly, bearded face and I couldn't help but be reminded briefly of my father. His warm hand reached out for my upper arm, sending it a slap of reassurance. "You'll be alright, love. There will be plenty of women on board for you to talk to, and the men will be there with steady arms to guide you."

Sherlock had been so good to me last time I was on the ship. He had pulled my hair back, washed my face, cleaned my clothes… I didn't want any other man but him to help me, despite the kind offer. "Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to get on board straight away."

I did as I promised, but it was hard for my nerves not to rise again when John and Sherlock were no were to be found. Needless to say, I took my time walking around the ship, and I had only scanned one side until I finally rested my eyes upon the pair.

"Paris, again?" John laughed behind a cloud of smoke. I could not tell if it was his own, or his sullen partner's. "Surely you and Renadale had a nice time before. What makes you want to go back?"

I knew it had to do with that gypsy woman. _What was her name?_

"Yes."

My breath stopped immediately at his deep, single reply. Afraid he would hear my surprise and take notice, I slammed my body against a nearby wall. They would not have a chance to see my face that way, but I could still listen closely to their conversation.

"Pushing her off of a train…" John chuckled, but it was not without a sour edge. "What an affectionate move."

"That's exactly what it was."

"Was it?" John scoffed. I could imagine him rolling his light eyes to the back of his skull. "Somehow, you don't strike me as affectionate."

"Miss Adkins knows how I feel." Sherlock paused before he finally spoke again. "It was not something that I wanted to do, but rather _had_ to do. You know I did it for their own safety." John did not reply. He was clearly too frustrated with the outcome. I knew how much he missed Mary, and I almost ran out and told him how much his feelings were reciprocated. "If anything were to happen to us-"

"Did you ever even tell her?"

Another pause. From them, as well as my heart.

"Tell her…?"

"How you truly feel."

Sherlock let out a curt laugh. It did not make me feel much better and the knife-like feeling returned to my gut. "How I truly feel? Watson, your words are more confusing than the Illuminati language." Somehow this past reference made me pleased that he had not forgotten about the previous case, but it did not make me feel very thrilled about him loving me. Things were beginning to take a turn for the worst, and worst of all, I was beginning to feel seasick.

"Don't be like that, Holmes." John's voice was as cold as ice. It sent shivers down my spine, along with the freezing air coming off the water. "She was never like that with you. She showed you. We all knew how she felt. If you don't care for her that way, then she deserves to know. A woman like Rena should not be kept waiting. She's too good for that, and someone will come along and take her before you can blink."

All of us held our breaths for the response.

But, we did not get one. The sound of the boat's horn was released, and as it jolted into motion, my stomach returned the gesture. "Oh no," I breathed in horror. My fingers pressed to my lips at the first sign of movement, and as we finally began to depart from the port, I knew I could not contain myself for much longer.

My legs darted out beneath me until my torso flung itself over the edge. I could feel all of the weakness inside of me pouring right out into the water. Appalled cries of dismay rang out around me, but I was too preoccupied with my present situation to take notice.

Just when I was starting to feel alright, something soft brushed against my skin. "Don't move. Stay where you are. Let your stomach relax." I did as I was told, but not because he told me to. The mere sound of Sherlock's low voice was enough to freeze me in my spot forever. And when his rough hands gently ran through my hair to pull it away from my face, I knew that my embarrassment was at its highest.

"Sherlock-"

"Renadale." It was a threat. I didn't even need to look at his face to sense the frustration on it. "Speaking won't make you feel any better."

Yet, I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell him. Even though it was not the proper time, he needed to know. Then again, after he and John's conversation, I wasn't really sure of where his affections remained. The day seemed to stretch on forever as I stared into the water moving beneath me.

"Renadale Adkins." Amusement was evident in John's voice. My eyes flickered shut as the heat on my face rose. "She's come back, has she? If only Mary were that headstrong." He sighed heavily, and gave me a gentle rub on one of my shoulders. "I was against the idea, you know."

Neither of their faces were clear to me, but I smiled nonetheless. "I know."

"But, if you want to know a secret…" He came a bit closer to whisper in my ear. "I'm very glad you're back."

"Me too," I managed to reply. "Me too."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

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	11. Waves

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**~Mistro~**

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

Sherlock was not happy. In fact, he was so unhappy that he didn't even say how miserable he was. He didn't say anything. Sherlock was utterly and almost repulsively quiet, with a dissatisfied curl of his lip etched onto his face.

John had helped me steady myself after the incident. People started going back to their normal routines, but not without shooting me concerned or disgusted looks. I didn't care about any of their wandering eyes. Sherlock stood directly across from me, and it was then that I noticed how bitter he was becoming.

John chuckled softly as Sherlock and I held our gaze on one another. "Perhaps you should take Rena to get cleaned up. Surely this isn't the best welcome present." John was speaking to his friend, but his words did not elicit a response. "Holmes." Watson's voice was firm and loud when he finally gained the attention of his partner.

"Of course. Follow me, Miss Adkins."

_Miss Adkins._

My breath sucked up inside of me, until it stopped inside of my chest and ached my heart. He was being formal again. That was the worst kind of Sherlock. "He's upset," I muttered briskly to Watson. "What do I do? I couldn't stay at Mycroft's house, let alone go back to London! It's not fair that he gets to throw me off of a train, and suddenly I'm the villain." Watson only smirked. It was because I already knew his response without him having to utter a syllable. _It's because he wanted to keep you safe. _I could practically hear John's voice floating in the air around me, but his lips remained shut.

_Right. _My headstrong attitude reappeared and wrapped itself around my clenched fists. _If he wants to be the child here, then I am going to be the adult. He will not treat me this way. I'll teach him some manners. _My feet rapidly took me to the other side of the boat, where Holmes had disappeared seconds before. When I finally got around to finding him, my stomach still upset and face as pale as sea foam, Sherlock was waiting with his fingers on a mysterious door handle.

"In here." That was all he said before he walked inside of a small door and disappeared.

Every inch of me wanted to move towards him. And yet, I couldn't find the strength. He was going to yell at me. He was going to tell me that I had to go back no matter what. Or worse, he was going to confess that his love was a lie. It was all just a way to get me off of the train and out of the picture.

How many times had I dreamed of him uttering those words to me? Sometimes, I had pictured it being said in a park. Other times, I had hoped that he would whisper it in my ear just as I was about to fall asleep. I never expected any of them to come true.

Let alone while I'm being shoved from a train.

"Are you coming?"

Sherlock's voice pulled me out of my distant wishes, and I quietly nodded and followed him inside the tiny compartment. He didn't bother to turn the light on, so the only glimpse of the sun was through a small window on the door. My hands began to grow moist with nerves as he stared down at me, only inches away from my face.

"You're very foolish to have come back."

"You're very foolish to believe that I _wouldn't_ come back."

Any argument after that would have been invalid. He knew that I was right, and was all the more bitter for it. "Here." He slipped something soft into my hand. "Wash your face and mouth. John and I will wait at the front of the boat. Come out when you're finished." He looked at me as he spoke, but his eyes pulled away when he uttered his last words. "We can talk about things later."

He started to pull open the door of the restroom, but my hand wouldn't let him. I flung it towards his wrist, trying my hardest to get him to stay with me. If he didn't tell me the truth then, it would have driven me mad for the rest of the evening. I needed to know his feelings. The truth couldn't wait any longer.

"Sherlock, wait-" My voice was weak as I tried to stop him, but my queasy body held little strength over his strong one. He pulled himself away from me and slid out the door, as swiftly and smoothly as he had entered it. I stood in the darkness with my hand outstretched, waiting for him to come back to me. It was a child's dream. I was alone.

And, maybe it was for a good reason. Maybe I was actually as troublesome as I had always believed myself to be. Maybe he had wanted to get rid of me for so long, but felt too bad about it because my heart was so weak. He knew how pathetic I was. He saw through everyone without batting his eyes. When it came to me, he didn't even need to look. I was as transparent as glass.

And yet, if he knew that about me, why didn't he have the decency to care? Why couldn't he hold me and tell me that he was sorry that he lied? Didn't he have that much dignity?

The thoughts rolling in my brain were starting to give me a headache, along with my feverishly sick stomach. With a heavy sigh and watery eyes, I turned to the mirror, making sure not to look directly into it. I washed my face and mouth carefully, just as I had been ordered. Even though he was mad at me, I couldn't help but be obedient to Sherlock Holmes.

My eyelashes blinked to get the remaining water droplets off, and I shivered as the coldness of them passed my pale cheeks. They were almost like tears, but somehow more soothing- more consoling. Though I should have checked myself, I left the bathroom without a glance towards my face. I didn't want to see it. If I saw myself, I would inwardly attack my esteem. Sherlock was already taking care of that today.

And I wasn't going to cry. Sherlock Holmes might be able to order me about, but he wasn't going to reign over my emotions. He didn't deserve my tears. At least, not on that day.

So, with my head held high, I exited the bathroom and headed towards the bow of the ship. A small smile formed on my face when John eyed me from his seat. Sherlock was standing with his back towards us and made no note at my appearance.

"You're looking much better, Rena."

"Thank you, John," I tried my hardest to force a smile. He didn't seem to notice my effort, but that was because he was too busy trying to form his own. Of course, the doctor was happy to see me, but I could read through his mask. He missed Mary more than anything. He would have jumped off and swam back to her if he knew how much she missed him too. John convinced himself that she was a strong woman, and I would play along with that.

I took Sherlock's seat as both of us began to eye the peculiar detective. His hands were gripping the wooden railing like it was his last breath, but his eyes never bothered to meet ours. His dark hair tumbled behind him in small ripples, as elegant and entrancing as the waves surrounding us. "Holmes just told me that we're heading off to a gypsy camp that is renowned for his peaches."

"The girl." I remembered her face as clear as day. Her dark curls echoed mine, but with more romance and interest. She was beautiful and a fighter. Though we hadn't spoken of her and her brother for quite some time, I had not forgotten. "He wants to find her. Her brother is a key piece in the puzzle."

John nodded in response. With a heavy sigh, he itched at the back of his neck as disapproval flickered into his eyes. "Somehow, staying at a gypsy camp doesn't seem like the best idea. They're beggars and thieves, and will no doubt find something to steal, even though I have nothing."

"Sherlock will take care of things." Sarcasm in my voice was hard to cover. "He always seems to find some way of turning things around, even though he gets us into the worst of messes."

John managed to laugh, but my phrase somehow struck a chord with him. It didn't take long for him to confess something to me in a whisper. "Something's happened." Sherlock stood no chance of hearing with the roar of the boat beside him. "He's just tossed a handkerchief into the water."

My head snapped towards John with clear confusion, and a bemused chuckle could not resist falling from my chapped lips. "A handkerchief? Whose? Why would he do such a thing?"

John only stared me. A part of him looked miserable, as if telling the truth would hurt me; as if the name would cause my heart to falter even more.

"Irene," I whispered.

"I don't know why he did it," John's voice was filled with concern. "I haven't seen him so down in ages. The last time he was this quiet was when he wasn't doing a case. He slept for three days straight without any illness. He was just too bored of life."

I would have laughed if the anxiety hadn't already boiled up inside of me. Was I being too harsh? Did something happen to the glamorous American that he wasn't telling us about? "He'll have to forget about it," I mumbled. "Whatever it was. I'm sure Irene can take care of herself, right? She's always been so headstrong and confident."

John managed to give me a sad smirk. "That's because she doesn't want anyone to see her pain."

I understood. Irene Adler was a doll for a puppeteer, and she had no say in her own choices. She would frown when people turned their heads, but when she met their eyes, she was as glorious as the sun. It was all an act. We were merely her audience. "I know someone else like that." My eyes flickered up to Sherlock, but they did not linger long before he turned to meet my face.

He looked as if he were about to say something, perhaps 'you're in my seat', but shut his mouth before he could regret the words. My gaze was far from friendly; I was shifting into aggression mode just by the sight of his eyes. Without a word, I stood up from the chair and headed towards the other end of the ship. Looking at him made me realize that it was the last thing I wanted to do.

Irene Adler. His annoyance. Me falling into a river. Everything made sense. There was never any Rena and Sherlock. Or, if there was, it was only for a short while. Tears threatened to fall, but I firmly whispered to myself as my heels clicked against the wooden floorboards. "Don't you dare cry over a man, Renadale Adkins. Not today. Not ever."

My feet took me up towards the upper deck where the breeze startled me with a force. For a second, I nearly lost my footing as my hair began to fall from its ribbon. "Oh, no!" I shouted as I watched the blue string flutter away into the air. My feet quickly rushed across the desk to snatch it, but it was much too far away for savior.

"We'll be going to Paris soon. Surely you can buy another one there." Sherlock's voice took me by surprise on the empty deck. I stared at him with as much of a blank expression as I could muster up. Apparently, it worked, because before I knew it, he was trying to redeem himself. "I know that I've been harsh, but you must know why-"

A curt laugh fell from my lips. I made sure that it was loud enough to be heard over the wind. "Oh, I'm sure you'll come up with some brilliant excuse. You'll make me feel like I'm the bad one, and that you were really my hero all along."

"No." His voice was firm. Nothing about him expressed mockery or fear. He was stone-faced to the point of frightening. "You can't make me out to be a hero. I'm not and I never will be."

"What a surprise." My feet carried me over to him until we stood nose to nose. "Sherlock Holmes, you didn't need to tell me that you weren't a knight in shining armor. I've been able to pick that up for the past few hours very easily." For a second, he did not seem to hear me. His eyes were transfixed on my loose hair, blowing endlessly around my face. There was softness in his gaze, almost longing. He had mentioned once before how he preferred my hair to be loose, and I felt myself growing weak at the knees with his suddenly loving gaze.

_Stop it, Renadale. Leave before you break your promise to yourself._

I began to make my way past him, but it was his turn to stop me. "You've seen Thomas recently."

All the confusion and hurt that I had been feeling suddenly came out in harshness. "How could you tell such a thing? Is it the color of my dress? Is it because my hair is less curled than the last time you saw it? Maybe it has something to do with my shoes."

"I know that you saw him because I told him to find you."

I was not expecting the blow that suddenly erupted in my stomach. The only thing I felt for a moment was pain and I was unable to hide it from my face. I thought that I was winning; that I had control over this strange man, but his last sentence made me realize. I would never win. Sherlock Holmes would always have the upper hand. He had my Queen without me ever knowing. "What do you mean… you _told_ him to?"

"You needed someone to keep you company in Chichester. Who better than Thomas?" Sherlock batted his lashes innocently and continued with his speech. "Mycroft would be gone most of the time, and Mary would have no reason to stay. I thought that if Thomas were there, you could-"

"Fall back in love with him?"

Sherlock's emotions suddenly came through. He scrunched his face in bewilderment as he quickly tried to redeem himself. "Fall back in love? No, that wasn't what-"

"You don't need to lie to me. I see what you're doing." Sherlock shut his mouth as I hurled my assumptions like daggers. "You threw me from that train just after you lied to me so that I could start over. Thomas was the only other man that I swore to love besides you, and you didn't want to dispose of me without giving me a second option. Of course, Thomas never really gave up on me, so you figured he would come to the rescue. I suppose it was rather sweet of you."

"Renadale, that's not-"

"He was a gentleman when we met up, as he had always been. Thomas has made some foolish and unforgivable mistakes in the past, but at least he didn't quit. At least he never lied when he told me his feelings, and the fact that he still cares for me shows that he was a better man than I gave him credit for." I had to stop for an intake of breath. "And you, Sherlock Holmes, have given me a second chance with him. So, please allow me to thank you. Your generosity is overwhelming."

My feet rushed back down to the bottom deck. There was nowhere to hide except the restroom, and I soon found myself back in the enclosed quarters. The door slammed shut behind me, and as I rested my back upon it, I could not help the tears that came rushing down my face.

_You told yourself you wouldn't cry. _My knees began to shake until they collapsed beneath me. All I had was the coldness of the floor to give me comfort, far from a man's warm arms. My nails dug into the wood as I struggled to catch my breath. _Stop crying, Renadale. Your heart just hurts. It will stop after a while. You'll be okay. _

"I'll be okay." I tried to convince myself. The words filled the air for a few minutes before I buried my face in my knees and wept.

~.~.~.~.~.~

France was beautiful. That was something I could never lie about, despite my pessimistic view towards it. I was even more thrilled when Watson informed me that we were heading into its countryside, rather than rushing towards the hectic city. A breath of fresh air could do us all some good, not to mention take my mind off of my wobbly stomach.

John had picked up an exposed coach for the three of us. None of us were particularly fond of cramming beside one another in the single row, but we kept our thoughts to ourselves as time passed. A beautiful black horse led our path into the silent journey and I would have fallen asleep immediately if it hadn't been for one issue.

I was not comfortable with Sherlock Holmes. My eyes were dry by the time the boat had stopped, so thankfully he did not know of my miniature breakdown. I kept my head high and pretended as if nothing had happened, which was a struggle in itself.

The case was what would occupy my thoughts.

The case and nothing else.

"Such wonderful hills, don't you think?" Watson smiled as the fresh air hit our faces. My hair continued to fly about freely, and I couldn't help but form a smile at John's happiness. "I suppose I don't blame the gypsies for wanting to live the way they do. Surely it's not sanitary, but at least they get a sense of nature. You miss that when you live in a cesspool like London."

"London is the greatest place on the face of the Earth," Sherlock interjected. His chin was resting on his clenched fist as his pouted lips faced the opposite way. "The country is lovely, but the city is where lives are made."

"What an odd notion," John muttered with a whip of the reigns. "If you were to be my only example, I would say that the city rather _detracted_ the life from someone." Sherlock let out a fake laugh before redirecting his attention towards the mountains. I sat quietly between the heated duo, fiddling with my thumbs.

My voice was small when I finally spoke. "I wonder if the gypsy woman will remember us."

Sherlock grunted and popped his collar further up his ears. "Simza needs us. We know about her brother, and that is enough to remember our faces." His eyes briefly met with mine. I thought I detected agony in his stare, but he turned before I could properly understand. "And that is all she cares about."

His messy face made me feel almost sympathetic, but the feeling dispersed as he tore his eyes away. The days I missed most were when I would catch him looking at me. He would turn red and quickly busy himself with something he deemed 'suddenly important'. My chest felt tight at the distant memories; when I could daydream without any fear. Instead, I let them fly off into the wind like the handkerchief Sherlock had held close.

My eyes were beginning to feel heavy with the tiredness that lingered behind them. Not only that, but the salty tears from before had left an uncomfortable after-effect. The only time I felt rested was when my eyes were sealed shut. And so, I let them be.

My head was sinking lower with every whip of the reigns, until it finally fell onto something rough. The musty fabric scratched against my cheek as we made our way over the bumpy road, but I was far too tired to care. Sense didn't take long to find me. I knew whose shoulder I was lying on.

"Let her be." John's voice was practically an order as I pretended to slumber. "Her eyes have never been so red and swollen. She needs to rest for a while."

The sun played across my skin, sending welcomed warmth along with the bitter winds. A white hue fell over my closed eyelids, bringing a smile to my lips as I was reminded of snowfall. For a moment, I was transported back to my bedroom where the sunlight always made my silvery curtains glow.

My body was pressed firmly against Sherlock's, my hands practically on top of his. He could have shoved me away, but I could hear his heart from beneath his jacket. It's drumming was louder than the horse hooves.

_Why am _I _making his blood pump?_

"Wake up." Watson's voice snapped me from my quick doze. Sherlock's fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose as the carriage pulled to a stop. I tried to nudge him, but he held his position. "We're here."

"Prepare yourself." Sherlock's words were filled with mockery. "We're about to be violated."

Before I could even ask him what he meant, the strong hands of a man wrapped themselves around my waist and pulled me into him. My embarrassment was too high to hide, and my fists knocked him away from me with sudden force. He only smiled and gave me a bow, his unshaven face cracking with delight. His eyes scanned me like I was something to eat, before he casually went back to fiddling on his blackened violin.

I could hardly breathe. I had met one gypsy in my entire life. Seeing their actual home made me realize that these people were practically a separate species. And, despite the crude looks, that eccentric universe captivated me.

Sherlock Holmes leaned over to whisper in my ear, though his words failed to drag me from my wonder. "Renadale… Meet the gypsies of the French Manouche."

~.~.~.~.~.~

**Hey y'all! Sorry for the long wait. I hope this chapter isn't too bland. The next one is sure to be a real treat, so please review and look for an update soon!**

**xx**


	12. Fear in the Firelight

**Howdy everyone! Wow! Thank you so much for all of the amazing reviews! I had no idea that I would actually get 200+! Can you all be dolls and do the same thing for this chapter (I don't expect you to get to 400. Omg.)? I'm a bit fearful about this, because someone gets a little crazy in this chapter (actually a few people, now that I think about it), so I want to know your opinion. (: Hopefully you like it! I loved writing it.**

**Daphii: I'm studying Korean, Chinese and German. :D Everyone share the worldly love. If any of you know these languages, feel free to post your review in them and I'll leave you a little note back!**

**OHHH. ANDDD. Someone super-dooper awesome, whose Fanfic name I actually forget (shit)… has made Renadale some gorgeous collages! Please check them out- they're on my homepage. What would Rena wear if she lived in modern times? Well, we now have an answer to that question, thanks to my LOVELY fans. X3**

**OKAY, I LOVE YOU ALL.**

**A LOT.**

**So much so, that some day, if we ever meet, I will buy you orange juice.**

**Infinite Xs and Os,**

**~Mistro~**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

"They're taking my luggage!" Watson shouted above the noise of practical kidnap. All three of us were being pushed towards a giant camp of tents, fires, chairs, and animals. John seemed to be having the worst of luck, but that was most likely because of his indifference. He struggled to fight against a gypsy reaching for his belongings, but eventually his strength won out.

Sherlock casually smirked to himself as I too struggled to keep up. "Laugh them away, Watson! I have her bag." He proudly lifted the bag trunk above his head. After announcing something in French, the case was being taken away.

I gasped aloud, nearly smacking him upside the skull. "You just gave them our only way of getting an audience."

"Rena's right," Watson chuckled darkly. A young boy began to poke his fingers into his pockets, but John quickly caught sight of him and swatted the rascal away. "You _had _her bag." His face twisted as a mass of people began to prod at his sleeves, peeling his only jacket from him without any struggle. "… Now they have my coat."

Sherlock smiled. If it weren't for Watson's displeasure, I thought he might have started clapping. A grin broke out briefly on my face, but I hid it before anyone could notice. The last thing I wanted was an angry John Watson.

We were all being led towards the largest fire in the camp, and as the air began to grow stuffier, so did my stomach. _What do they have in store for us? _All I could picture was them tossing us into the fire without any mercy. A shudder broke through my body. _These cases are making me demented. _Nothing happened like I planned, and they finally let go of us. The heat of numerous fires actually felt wonderful on my cold ears, and I shuffled a bit closer towards the smoke, without any fear of being sacrificed.

"Where is Madame Simza?" Watson spoke slowly, as though the French gypsy could not understand. White teeth smiling in amusement gave him away. He knew every word that was spoken, but cared too little for the feisty British man to answer. "Où est Simza?"

The man, whose face was nearly as black as the burnt wood, pointed towards someone. "_This_ is Simza." The three of us turned to see the spectacle, unpleased to find a sleeping elder strangling a goose.

My head fell onto my shoulder in bewilderment. "What strange lives these people lead." Sherlock grunted in agreement, or perhaps it was disagreement. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself, no doubt at the expense of his friend's sanity.

The gypsy man began to laugh. He was rather proud of his joke, but judging by Watson's sarcastic chuckles, he was not going to get the response he wanted. I knew things were not going smoothly. John just had his wife thrown from a train. His would were already wide open, and this man was only poking at them with needles.

"Sim is a goose." Watson slowly nodded his head as the thought rolled through his brain. More gypsies had gathered around the odd English triplet, and a low hum of chuckles broke out in the circle surrounding us. For a moment, darkness flickered into John's eyes, but he hid it well.

"_I_ am Sim!" The man proclaimed. Apparently this was hilarious for the rest of the camp, and the violinist continued on with his happy tune. Something sparked inside of the gypsy's eyes, because his fingers suddenly went for Watson's throat. "Nice scarf!" He gasped in admiration as he began to peel the fabric away. "I like!"

"Oh no!" My voice was hardly audible as John's fist went flying towards the man's nose. He hardly saw it coming, what with John's sweet face and all, and he was soon lying flat on his back. The scarf remained tied around his neck, but instead of pleasure, the man's face only held pain.

No one dared laugh. Watson had to shape up his act accordingly, or an even bigger fight was going to break out. And, perfectly enough, Sherlock began to erupt into a fit of giggles. My head warningly snapped towards him as I reached to help the fallen man from the ground. If one of us showed some dignity, maybe we had a better chance of meeting Simza. "You're not helping."

"Do I ever?" Holmes's lips spread into a bemused smirk.

"Tell them what you want," I whispered threateningly. "If you at least let them know why you are here, they won't see you as being so suspicious. Why do you never think the sensible bits through?"

Apparently this advice was good enough for the great sleuth, because suddenly proclaimed something in French. The crowd seemed concerned by his words, but I could not understand why. My French was as good as my boxing.

Something soft rubbed against the back of my shins. My body twisted in surprise and my eyes matched the feeling when I saw who was standing at my backside. The woman from the bar was still beautiful and headstrong. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was neither confused nor happy. She felt nothing, but if I saw correctly, a glimpse of hope shimmered in her amber eyes. Perhaps she knew why we were there. Helping her brother was clearly all that she wanted. She muttered quietly in our direction. "You hungry?"

My voice was out before she could finish. "Starved."

"Famished," Sherlock continued.

With a small wag of her finger, she motioned for our party to continue into her tent. Her long, patched skirt swung behind her like a warrior's cape. I was not surprised. She was as much of a warrior as they came, and much prettier than the scarred. Her feet were light and swift and before I knew it she was waiting with the tent flap held open for us. "Go inside," she said softly. "I will join you with Tamas in a minute."

"Tamas must be the one you nearly blinded," I grumbled towards Watson. He only shot me a sullen look before slugging his way inside. I could tell how tired he was; not only physically, but of the case. Surely, the main thing on his mind was his lonely fiancée and their empty room in Brighton.

"How upset do you think he is?" Sherlock's voice surprised me as we waited by the entrance.

I managed a small shrug, still feeling strange when I spoke to him. "He can handle things. He always does, doesn't he?" Sherlock only nodded. His minimal responses were making me nervous, and my self-consciousness shifted me from one foot to the other. It didn't take long for him to notice my discomfort, and oddly enough, he seemed concerned.

"Do you feel ill?"

"Not at all." The laugh that followed was not reassuring.

"Will you speak with me later this evening?" My heart wanted to give a positive answer, but my mouth could not seem to find the words. I choked on them for a bit until I finally gave up and embraced the silence. "I need to share something with you." His voice was urgent. Beneath the dirt lining his face, I could tell how important this was to him. "It's about Irene. Not just Irene, but about you as well."

"Me…?" I could hardly believe him. "What does it have to do with?" Inwardly, I prayed that he wasn't going to set me free. On the boat my attitude had been proud, but when it came to reality, I still wanted him. I wanted him more than anything.

"The train. You were upset on the boat, and I won't lie to you anymore. I want to talk about what I said just before I pushed you-"

"Are you ready?"

Both of us were lost from our hushed whispers as Simza and Tamas joined our side. Tamas looked far from pleased, but as I gave him a small smile, I watched his shoulders drop. Something about my appearance seemed to calm him down, as if he would not get punched again with a lady around. Sherlock merely nodded his head and followed the two gypsies inside.

"Tonight," I muttered with a quick tug on his sleeve. "You'd best keep your word."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks momentarily, before leaning a bit closer towards me. The other three began to speak without hearing us. I heard every syllable.

"All of my words are true if I speak them to you." For once in his life, he took his time to speak. The sentence was long, and drawn out, as if he wanted to make sure that I heard correctly. That was a small miracle in itself, but it became real when he continued to stare into my eyes. "I have never lied to you and I don't ever plan to."

Though a fire was burning in the pit of my stomach, I stood my ground. My chin lifted itself a bit higher. "Then you're telling me that what you said on the train was true." I though I saw his head nod a bit, but it was far too subtle for me to be sure. "Say it."

"What?" Pressure cracked inside of his voice. "Right now?" Panic put on her shoes and began to perform a dance inside of his pupils. My only response was a firm glare that could hardly continue on with the fluid pumping of my heart. "Renadale, that's not-"

"Tell me."

"Here." Simza's voice distracted both of us from our conversation, allowing Sherlock to breathe out an enormously dramatic sigh. I nearly scolded him for such an immature gesture, but ignored it in favor of the hospitality of my hostess. "This is for you." She jutted something out towards us with distaste. She really had no reason to trust us. Not yet, anyway.

My hands politely took the chipped plate away from her. She didn't bother waiting for a token of my appreciation, but instead wandered back to her seat. I could not be bothered to chase after her after I saw the large hunk of meat staring me in the face. "Is this…?"

"Hedgehog," she said calmly from the cloaked caravan steps. Her arms flopped lazily over her knees, and she sent me a smirk of amusement. Something about it was devious. The woman was stronger than she looked. Which said something, because she even _looked _vicious. "It is a traditional goulash of my people."

"Hedgehog." My lip twitched nervously as the poor creature's face came into my mind. "I'm sure it's…"

"Spectacular!" Sherlock finished as he scooped a spoonful in his mouth. Part of me almost dumped my contents onto his plate. If he liked it so much, he could have it. However, my mother had succeeded in giving me _some _manners. "It is honestly a delight. Send your cooks my thanks."

Simza only managed a diminutive grin, but I could tell that she believed him. Maybe she was warming up to us after all. Or, maybe just Sherlock. After all, he saved her life. "Please, sit down." She gestured towards a group of small cushions lying opposite her. The three of us followed instructions immediately, not wanting to offend the terrifying hostess.

No one said anything for quite some time. Simza and Tamas merely watched us, glancing from our eyes to our plates with expectation. I shuddered as I put the cold fork into my mouth, tasting the bitterness of the meat that lay on top of it. It caught inside of my throat, and I began to choke in the still atmosphere. All heads turned my direction until I finally tensed up my stomach and swallowed the strange mixture.

It was an effort that I did not want to try again.

Sherlock and Watson were gnawing away at theirs like it was actually satisfying, but I could not seem to get the taste of rotting meat away from my tongue. "Madam, this is a _glorious_ hedgehog goulash." Sherlock's words took Watson and I both by surprise, and John nearly followed my previous choking example. "I can't remember ever having had better."

Watson was now pushed past his limit. I could see it in his eyes before anyone else could, and shudders rang out all over my body as he clamped his fork down onto his plate. "Do tell me, when was the last time you had a hedgehog goulash?"

"John, don't push it." I snapped sharply under my breath. He took no notice of me.

"I told you, Watson!" Sherlock's head bobbed sarcastically. "I can't remember."

"Oh!" John chuckled bitterly beneath his breath. His voice softened as he leaned closer towards his seemingly ex-best friend. "Then perhaps you've _repressed _it."

"Why are you two making all of this fuss?" I grumbled. "You have plenty of other logical things to argue about. This is not one of them."

Sherlock seemed to find both of these comments amusing as he let out a snarky chuckle. "You see, that's where we differ. Unlike you, I repress nothing."

John's laugh was a bit more genuine as he set his plate down. "Perfectly normal." I knew that I should have stopped their argument, but I couldn't stop thinking about my meal. Watson had managed to eat half of his, but I had only taken two long bites. I could see Tamas's eyes from the corner of the tent, dark and unforgiving. Pathetically, I hung my head and continued to shovel it in my mouth without breathing.

"How dare you be rude to this woman," Sherlock grabbed John's arm with warning in his voice. "… who has invited us into her tent… offered us her hedgehog…"

"Says the man who throws women from trains."

Another choke broiled up inside of me. When I had hit the river, a bed of water fell out beneath me. Suddenly, at the mention of that night, the coldness in the air came back to me and I physically shuddered at the memory. "Can you both please be ordinary?" My voice was not restrained. "I know it is very difficult for the pair of you, but _do_ manage to try."

"Who are you three?" Simza's voice made us all put on grinning teeth.

Sherlock let his shoulders rise with a modest shrug. "Concerned citizens."

She barely moved an inch as she took in his words. Her stare was sharp, demanding and cold. It almost reminded me of Irene, minus the dark shadow on her eyelids. "Why did someone try to kill me?"

John let go of his previous argument and took care of the situation at hand. I was still trying to finish my meal, despite the fact that it had now turned cold. Before, I didn't think it could get any worse. I soon found out that I was wrong. "Your brother has become involved with a very dangerous man," John continued. "Who clearly believes that René has told you something that you shouldn't know."

_His face. Something about his face._

I struggled to remember what the letter said, but the drawing was as clear to me as the dead animal below my eyes. "Do you have any idea?" I said softly, creeping my plate onto a nearby trunk. Tamas caught me and narrowed his eyes forebodingly, causing me to whimper and return to my previous battle.

"I don't know anything." Simza was lying. She sounded strong with her words, but someone who was innocent did not sound powerful. They sounded scared. "I've been looking for him for over a year. That was why I was in London." Her attitude began to shift as she opened up. The actual worry was coming through, and the love for her brother was obvious. "That was the last place anybody saw him."

"It's clear that your brother loves you." Sherlock's affectionate words made my heart skip a beat. It was then that I noticed a bottle of wine sitting nearby. Disgusted with the taste in my mouth and fearful from the mention of the 'l' word, I snagged it before anyone could stop me. "He'd never send you a message that would put you in harm's way." Sherlock lifted the letter up slowly. "Any information, therefore, would be, by default, unintentional."

John stepped in as I began to fill a large glass with red wine. "Has your brother sent you anything else?"

"Just a few drawings."

I should have been listening. My thoughts were too preoccupied with the wine. The droplets came out swiftly in a massive wave, but I did not bother stopping until it reached the rim. In actuality, alcohol did not suit me. I made my head spin and my legs numb, but I needed it. The day had been far too long and wine would be my escape. The smell filled my nose, and at that point, I knew there was no one else for me in that world.

"Let's just see what they have to tell us." Holmes was clearly going somewhere with this, and I watched behind the inside of my cup.

Simza reached up and took them from another trunk. Passing them to Tamas, I watched with nervous eyes as he brought them over to us. He could have gone then, but he wouldn't leave without sending me a quick whisper. "Don't drink too much, girl. The music will take you over."

I had no idea what he was going on about. That may have been because my head was spinning, or because his words sounding like drum beats in my head. My eyes flickered to the glass that was already empty. How long had that taken me? A minute? One chug? I could hardly remember. My hands began to shake, and I just pressed them annoyingly to my forehead. "Music," I grumbled. "Please let there be no music."

"Unusual choice of paper…" Sherlock continued. "Thicker gauge, designed for a printing press." He began to flick through the sketches, and I watched on with curiosity.

"Is that… is that a lighthouse?" My finger flopped onto the top photo with a heavy thud. My words were already slurring together. No one but Tamas seemed to take notice, and I was glad for that. I knew what I was doing, but I poured myself another glass.

"Could be," Watson replied. "It's also the same stock as the letter." He pressed it briefly to his nose before pulling away in disgust. "They smell musty. Must have been stored somewhere cold and damp."

A giggle escaped my lips, and I leaned back onto my hands. My second glass tumbled from my fingers, and though I was worried about staining the carpet, all I could notice was that it was completely empty. "When did _that_ happen?" I muttered amazedly, inspecting the inside of my cup. "I only just filled it two seconds ago." Tamas hid his mouth from me. He was laughing at my current state, but instead of being offended, I simply joined in the mockery.

"What's that?" Watson's voice sounded urgent as he leaned closer towards one of the papers. "Blood?"

"Blood!" I shouted. "How awful!" They were all beginning to take notice of me then, and Tamas quickly rushed over to calm me. My brows crinkled together at the sudden sight of him. The smell of eggs and dirty hair filled my nose. "What do _you _want?"

He held his dark hand out towards me, his skin rough and unfriendly. "Let's go outside. Air. Okay?" He continued to nudge his palm into my face until I finally swatted it away.

"I don't want to go."

"You've had four wine." His broken English mumbled closely towards my ear.

"No, no. I've had _two_."

"I have watched. You drink four." He held up his fingers to make sure that his English was not incorrect. I stared incredulously at his hand, touching his fingers as though I would break them.

_Oh, no. _"When did I pour…" My head shook away the thought. "Forget it. I want to go outside. You can't make me, but I'm going to go on my _own _accord." My legs wobbled beneath me as I struggled to keep my balance. Thankfully, Tamas decided to take me under his wing and direct me back towards the entrance. Everything began to spin as I walked. I couldn't tell if I was properly making my way across the room, because the colors began to twist into one massive blob. My eyes were heavy as I tried to rub away the disturbing sight, but nothing seemed to change. "Oh, God!" I shouted, covering my face with my palms. "I've gone blind!"

"What in God's name has happened to Rena?" Watson's voice was louder than anything I'd ever heard before, and I tried to swat it away in the air. Something soft touched my cheeks, holding my head in place. "Rena, are you alright?" He paused for a moment before scoffing. "Damn it, Holmes. She's drunk."

My vision began to shift back to normal as John's warm hands kept my head in place. I could feel a stupid grin breaking out, but I let it happen. My finger touched the tip of his nose amusedly. "I'm not drunk," I muttered. "I'm happy."

"She's drunk," he groaned. "I can smell it on her breath."

"I'm not drunk!" I repeated loudly. "I'm in love!"

Before I could blink, Sherlock was shoving me towards the center of the camp. "Yes, I think it is time for her to go! Take her out for some fresh air, will you? It will do her some good. Try and get her to sleep if you can."

"Whom are you talking to?" I said as I stumbled outside. The wind hit me with force, but it only made me feel all the more alive. "This is brilliant!" My arms lifted up from my sides, as though the whole universe could fit inside my palms. "Where is the music? Aren't gypsies always supposed to have music? Play something for me! My feet want to dance!"

A couple of people sitting around the campfire began to exchange looks. Their faces were too blurry for me to read the proper expressions, but when they all began to stand up, I knew that I had won some minor victory. Their dirt-filled nails flew to their strings with repressed urgency. My hands clasped together giddily as they began to start a duo of Romani tunes.

My feet rushed me towards the heat of the fire. I could feel the flames flickering across my face; their warmth reminding me of my fireplace in London. I let my eyelids flicker shut as the music swam into my head. My hands began to twist until they were high into the air, like a true Romani. As for my feet, they suddenly had a mind of their own as they made their way around the grounds. I could hear the fiddles getting faster, their notes nearly incomprehensible from the next.

Something rough grabbed my arm, and it was only then that my eyes cracked open. A young boy held me tightly in his arms, spinning me around without a care in the world. There was no anger in my soul, and I happily moved beside him. "Who are you?" I laughed. "I don't even care anymore!"

There had never been such an occasion in my life. I had only gone to three formal balls in my entire existence, two of which I never danced. And when I finally did, it was gentle and polite, not to mention with my cousin. Things at the gypsy camp were not 'gentle' and 'polite'. They were real. People were dancing from their souls, not their instruction books.

"Rena!"

My head instantly flung backwards at the jolly shout of Dr. Watson. "John!" I shrieked, stumbling towards him and away from my partner. "What are you doing here? Don't you have to go argue with someone?" He didn't have time to answer. A bottle was suddenly flying towards us, and I caught it with shaky hands. "Oho!" I pressed the opening to my nose. "More wine. Would you look at that! Why does it smell like peaches?"

Watson gently plucked the bottle from my hands and moved it onto his lips. I watched in silence as he practically drank half of the bottle in a matter of seconds. When he had finished, the only proper thing to do was embrace a momentary silence. "Would you like to dance, Rena?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

John's hands caught my waist faster than I had anticipated, and we were soon both twirling around the circle. Everyone cheered us on as if we were one of them. For a moment, I wasn't the nervous girl from London. Renadale Adkins was someone else entirely. When was the last time I felt that free? It was like the coldness of the night was seeping from our veins and being replaced by heat of romance and moonlight.

_Romance._

My whole body stopped in place. John didn't seem to notice, thankfully. He was shimmying his way through a whole crowd of people, now just as drunk as I was. My head was beginning to throb, but my eyes didn't stop searching. "He's not here," I mumbled to myself. No one cared as I drew away from the lively dancers. "Holmes?" My voice was small against the music, but when I finally arrived at Simza's tent, a wobbly silhouette awaited me.

"Renadale Adkins, you certainly know how to throw a party." Sherlock was dancing a bit in his seat as he spoke to me, but his voice was calm. I was having fun, but my lips were turned down like a sad dog.

"Sherlock…" I groaned. "I suddenly don't feel good."

My words took him from his trance. He instantly bolted from his chair to steady me in his hands. My feet began to trip out beneath me, but he came just in time. "You have a tendency to fall, don't you?"

A grunt was the only response I could think of. _At least you're always there to catch me. _I let my arms go limp at my side as my head began to droop down his chest. "I'm tired, Sherlock."

"You've had a rough couple of days."

"I'm tired, Sherlock."

"Yes, I know. You just said that."

Another minor giggle escaped my lips, but as I opened my mouth, nausea came flooding back. Groaning was my only comfort, and my arms flung around Sherlock's waist for support. "I just want to lie down. Can I do that? Where is a bed?"

Sherlock gently plucked my fingers from his back, one by one, until I was wobbling in place. He looked me square in the eye, but even in my drunken state, I could not bring myself to look back at him. "You're right," he sighed. "You need to lie down. Come, come. I'll take you to your tent."

He slid his hand in mine, leading me out from the warm canvas. The night was cold as we walked away from the fire, but his skin was warm in my own. My head fell lazily against his arm, and my eyes could barley stay open. Shuffling my feet along, I thought it was heaven when I finally reached a golden opening. "This is my tent?"

"This is your tent."

One foot carefully slinked inside. The rest of my body did not follow as swiftly. "What if there are snakes in there?"

He shook his head, gently urging me to go inside. "I promise they will not get you."

"So… there _are_ snakes in there?" He was laughing too much to reply. Both of my hands flung themselves towards his as he refused to answer my questions. "Come in with me."

Now it was his turn to freeze up. The laughing was cut short and though it was dark, I could see his face turning red. "I think you're old enough to put yourself to bed."

"I'm not tired, though. I don't want to go to sleep. I want to talk to you." Sherlock sighed and shook his hand through his curls. He quietly consented, and we both made our way under the yellow fabric. Nothing stood inside besides a small sheet and a dingy old trunk. Despite the minor appearance, the scene looked horribly inviting. Sherlock was the main thing on my mind, so I had to put sleep on hold. I spun around to face him, but his back was slowly escaping my view. "Hey!" I shrieked, grabbing the fabric of his vest and tugging him back inside. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To sleep," he mumbled.

"You promised me earlier that we would talk."

He couldn't help but chuckle at this ridiculous notion. "You're in no state for that."

I shook my head defiantly. "If I'm not in a state for that, then how could I even remember it?" My words began to slur together towards the end of my sentence, making my question practically answer itself. "Please talk to me."

Somehow, my moping must have affected him, because a heavy sigh answered my desire. "What do you wish to talk about?"

"You said that you loved me."

Visibly, Sherlock's face turned into one of horror. He cracked his neck in discomfort, refusing to place his eyes on my face. "You may or may not have heard me correctly."

"_Do_ you love me?" My question was put almost as a whine, as my feet shuffled closer towards him. My fingers reached out and took a strong hold of the fabric on his chest as my eyes pleadingly tried to meet his. "Please tell me the truth. You're killing me. The whole boat ride, I was just devastated that I didn't know. It's not because I want you to love me. I never expected that. But, you're hurting me. You're hurting me by not letting me know the truth." I had no idea how I managed to form so many proper sentences, but it worked, and I could clearly see the affect it had on Sherlock. Towards the end of my pleading, he was able to give me a strong look of reassurance. He hadn't said anything yet, but there was sorrow in his eyes. There was apology and regret. But, for what? "Tell me," I whispered desperately. "You're killing me."

"If I tell you, you won't remember tomorrow."

My body slammed against his in a flurry, as more urgent words fell from my lips. "Then tell me tomorrow. And, tell me the day after that. Tell me everyday so that I never have to get drunk again."

"Renadale, do you…" He stopped speaking for a moment. The thoughts that were running through his head were incomprehensible as usual. "Asking a drunk woman this question would be considered a folly, but I admit that I'm as curious as you."

"Curious?"

"Renadale, do you have feelings for me?" My stomach twisted. Whether it was from disappointment or the alcohol, I wasn't sure. He had to know. He had to know how much I loved him. "I mean, do you…"

"I love you."

If only I had had a camera. To capture his expression at that moment would have been the biggest advantage I could have had over him, perhaps in his whole career. "Did you just say that-?" He cut himself short with the possibility. Two shaking hands found my shoulders and shoved me towards the mattress. "This is unfair of me. You're clearly past the alcohol limit that keeps you sane."

"I'm sane!" I shouted, jumping up from the blankets. "Clearly, my words are much more sensible than _yours_ were. Youtold me while throwing me from a train. Don't I have the advantage here?"

Sherlock's eyes scanned my body like I was a wet dog. There was a bit of disgust, empathy and annoyance all intertwined. "You obviously have no idea how bad of a state you're in now."

Like a persistent child, I walked into him. "Please tell me," I groaned while my head dropped lazily onto his chest. "Just tell me that you love me. Even if you don't mean it. Lie to me for just a minute and let me have my bliss."

"I already told you…" His hands firmly pushed my head further away from him. "… I would never lie to you."

"So, you won't say it?" My head was hanging limply from my neck. The weight of it was making me topple over myself, and before I knew it, I was lying with my face into the ground. "Why does everything I love have to die or run off?"

The ringing in my ears was getting louder with each passing heartbeat. I let out a long moan, hoping that some of my upset stomach would travel out of me through my whimpers. Even after I stopped my complaining, the sickness continued on. What made it worse was that the alcohol was making my head spin, and I could hardly keep my eyes open long enough to see if Holmes had bothered to stay.

"He hates me. He hates me more than anything." Saltiness suddenly found its way into my mouth. My fingers flew to my face in disgust, returning wetter than before. "Damn it, Renadale! You promised yourself!"

"Just cry. You'll feel better for it."

My head shot up from the pillow, my eyes darting about the empty space. Nothing was laid before me but the grass and a dusty old suitcase. Sherlock's voice was clear though, which meant that he had to be hiding somewhere. "You didn't leave?"

"No."

The voice came from behind me. Surprised by the sound, I rolled onto my backside to get a better view of what I hoped would be true. Sure enough, his tired figure was halfway draped over me, and I couldn't stop myself from grinning through the dried tears on my cheeks. "Why are you still here?"

"Someone has to look out for you." The response was more of a grumble, but somewhere behind it, a smirk was trying its hardest not to slip through. "Watson can't keep his dog from my experiments, nor his wife for that matter, so I certainly won't assign him to your better health."

Though I only managed to grasp a few of his words, laughter came out regardless. My head continued to pound as though my heart were trying to break through my skull. Wincing in annoyance, I flung myself towards his crossed legs and dropped my head into the open pit. "Sherlock Holmes-"

"Go to sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

All I could do was nod. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I'm pathetic. When his hands began to brush through my loose hair, all of the aggression burned with the fire outside. When I felt his rough lips brush against my forehead, the sweetness of his heart was clear to me. And when I heard him whisper in the darkness, 'I have always loved you', I knew that nothing had ever been so true.

~.~.~.~.~.~

**I hate to break the mood, but… review? (:**


	13. A Taste of Danger

**Erm. So. I can explain. University has been eating my soul. I had no idea how tough and busy things would get, but there is no need to fear. I am writing a lot over the break, so Renalock is back on!**

**Please don't think I have forgotten about the story. (: I would not do that to all of you, nor would I do that to myself! Thank you for the caring and supportive reviews, and I hope you enjoy the new chapter! We're almost halfway! (:**

**Much love,**

**~Mistro~**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

Have you ever had your head slammed in a door? Shoved against a wall? I have not, but awaking the next morning after a night of alcohol gave me such a pain that neither of those two could have compared to it. My hands could not stop shaking. My head was pounding and at the first glimpse of sunlight, a headache was drilling into my skull. My stomach was empty from lack of food the evening before. Surely, the alcohol had not been a friend of mine.

Though my entire body felt as though it were not with me, there was something that I could not help but take note of. My body, weak as it was, was alone. Battered, old blankets were wrapped around me, but they were not what I was familiar with. I had fallen asleep with the sensation of warm arms keeping me close. Those arms were no longer beside me.

_What if they've left and left me here?_

I instantly shot up from my makeshift bed, my eyes trying desperately not to blur and twist the whole room. What if they had left me behind? The worst sorts of thoughts were beginning to trickle towards my mind like the wine had trickled down my throat. My hands firmly pushed me from the ground and into the empty space of the tent. There was commotion outside, but the voices were all foreign. I could not hear the nervous pitches of Doctor Watson, nor the sarcastic remarks of his partner.

My eyes briefly trailed down to my fingertips. I could still feel his in mine; lingering longer than acceptable for an unmarried woman. Rough and cracked, but still gentle and comforting. My stomach twisted at the idea of being apart from him, if even for a second.

Time was of the essence. I shuffled my cold feet towards the opening crack in the tent. The daylight hit me with a force I had not expected, but I squinted my eyes and continued my search. A few of the gypsies saw my rough state and sent me a cheerful wave and mocking chuckle, but I ignored them in search of my friends.

"Oh, where _are_ you?" When I spoke, the voice was not mine. It was harsh and scratchy, befitting to someone else. I made a promise that I would never drink again, unless of course, the situation presented itself. And if I planned on spending my time with Sherlock… I was certain those situations would be presented.

"Does she have a clue of what's going on? We can't wait much longer and she's not even dressed properly."

Madame Simza. I could recognize her heavy accent any day. My head snapped at the first sign of her voice and sure enough, there she stood with her heavily draped arms crossed firmly over her chest. The look on her face was one of displeasure, but it was growing increasingly familiar to me. No doubt it was because of my drunkenness and inability to function properly the next day. All I could manage was a hesitant smile. "Good morning," a small chirp came from my lips.

"It will be… once we actually _leave_." Her hands roughly tossed me a ragged, green dress and when I looked back up, she had disappeared behind the other makeshift homes. The dress smelled of firewood and spice, but it was better than my wine-drenched apparel that I had been wearing before.

Swiftly, I changed my attire and headed back into the center of the camp. Watson and Holmes were nowhere to be seen. Part of me was worried. Another part remember how they always presented themselves when I needed them most. It was just the act of waiting that I wasn't thrilled about.

"_Ivrogne._ Girl." Simza could not have sounded more displeased with me. Taking five minutes to turn my head to face her, I was greeted with exactly the face I had imagined. Bitter. "They're waiting for us in the cart."

"What cart?" I asked softly, rubbing the tiredness away from my heavy eyelids. She did not need to respond with words. Her thin finger pointed into the distance where a large, wooden cart was waiting with an open boot. I presumed that we were to get inside, considering Watson and Sherlock had already beaten me to it.

"Let's get going, ivrogne. Oui?" Her hands roughly shoved my back in the right direction as she laughed amusedly. I presumed her jovial chuckle was more fixated _towards_ me, rather than _with _me. She didn't need to tell me twice. One look from Madame Simza was enough to send me running across the country.

When I finally reached the edge of the cart, John leant me his hands to help crawl inside. When I finally hit the wooden floor and got a better view of his face,

I knew I was not alone in my late-night struggles. "Oh, John," I breathed. His eyes were dark sunken as a gun-shot ship, and his hair was sprouting out from beneath his hat. "You look absolutely shattered."

"I'm afraid I'm doing poorly. I wish I could say it was because of natural causes, but… " His face twisted into something sour. "I fear it was my own fault."

"Did you drink as well? I feel like a fool for my lack of proper memory."

"I did, but I'm afraid I was nowhere _near_ as impressive as you." He cracked a smile, though the dark rings beneath his oceanic eyes could not hide his lack of energy. "Sherlock said you fell asleep quickly. That was good to hear. I do hope that you're feeling much better."

I returned the smile warmly and sat casually beside him. Sherlock was on the opposite side of me, but he was lost in a French conversation with the gypsy woman. "I'm assuming you have nothing that can cure me."

"Just a bit of sleep and plenty of water," John smiled. "I think being away from your mother right now is the best cure. If she would have seen the state you were in last night, I fear it would have been the death of both of you!"

Our laughter covered up the remaining conversations, but before I could get another supportive word in, the wheels kicked into movement. I heard the horses whiney into motion as the wheels dug themselves into the dirt of the Earth. The sudden shock of movement startled my dizzy head, and my arm reached out for comfort. I was sitting between Watson and Sherlock, and since Sherlock was the closest to me, I reached for his sleeve in support. "I'm sorry," I muttered with my eyes tightly shut. "My head is still a bit fuzzy."

Something gentle tucked a stray curl behind my ear. I wanted to look into his eyes, but I knew that if I opened my own I could be doomed to more queasiness of the stomach. "If you must, place your head upon my shoulder."

There was no need to suggest the idea a second time. My head almost instinctively fell onto him as if we were opposing magnets, unable to resist the temptation and pull of one another. I knew his head had turned to look down at my hair, but I shut my eyes incase he could see the embarrassment hidden behind them. "Last night…" I started to mumble, but grew weary of any lectures that he might have for me. My lip was bit and my words were silenced.

"Last night, you proved to me that I taught you how to dance properly." Sherlock's tone was serious, though I found it hard not to laugh at his words. Simza and John had moved towards one another to engage in a conversation and thankfully they could not hear us. "Whether or not I taught you _well_ is a different story."

A brief chuckle escaped my lips, but the movement hurt my stomach and I grabbed it quickly before it could hurt. Sherlock noted the wince and gently sat back to look at me. "I'm fine." A tight smile broke out onto my face. "Just a bit unadjusted to the morning, that's all."

He was tired too. I wasn't sure how long he had stayed by my side, but wherever he was, he did not seem to get much sleep. It wasn't just the evening before that had been making him weary. It was everything. Moriarty was still loose and planning another attack. Rene was nowhere to be found. Thomas was still on my heels and I naturally hadn't been very useful. I had been a foolish drunk who only dreamt of romance.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock's voice trickled into my stream of thoughts. I looked up at him with blank eyes, not wanting to confess my mind. "I can always tell when you're feeling guilty about something. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"I was drunk," I mumbled.

"We were all a bit drunk."

"_You _were drunk."

Sherlock smirked. "Correct. I was not drunk. However, most people see my mind on a daily basis as something rather intoxicated and twisted. Not to mention, you were livelier last night than I have ever seen you."

I could not help but hang my head in shame, despite his somewhat attempt at a compliment. "The last thing you need right now is a hopeless drunk."

Sherlock shook his head. "A bit of fun is exactly what I needed."

Fun? I didn't think of myself as fun, especially when Sherlock had to watch out for me. My face turned away from his at it grew warmer by the second. Not to mention, when was the last time I bathed? I probably looked like a train wreck and the last thing I wanted was for him to see me that way.

"Renadale."

"What?" My head was hung as my fingers twisted anxiously around one another in my lap. The floor was hurting my bottom and the wooden walls twisted my back. Being in my bed with a warm up of tea back in London was the only thing that sounded soothing.

"You are _always_ what I need."

My head snapped up instantly, all worried thoughts of my appearance gone. Perhaps I was wrong about my bed in London. Sherlock Holmes was my medicine. "What would entice you to say such a ridiculous thing?" I managed to whisper as my cheeks flushed pink.

"You have given me a night that I can look back and smile upon. You made me feel needed. Contrary to your opinions, I rather liked looking out for you." His face was twisted into something painful, as though the words themselves were burning his tongue as he spoke. "You also told me something that no one has confessed to me before."

_I love you._

The memory flooded back like a tidal wave. I had said it! Hadn't I? Yet, _how _had I said it? Obviously, I had been drunk. My hair must have been everywhere. Who knows how tightly my clothes had been on? My eyes might have been rolling back into my head for all I knew!

Why were we both so untraditional? Why could we not look one another in the eye and say, "I love you" with all of the feelings and emotions still attached? What was so criminal about that? The world did not turn easily for us. It got stuck and it tripped, stumbled, and bruised itself along the way.

"Sherlock," I muttered lowly after finally regaining my senses. "I want to apologize for what I said to you the night before."

"Apologize?" Hurt flashed across his face.

"I'm not saying that I didn't mean what I said. In fact, most people say what they feel when they're drunk. However, I can't recall how or when I said it. I want to apologize for not being more romantic or having it be more memorable."

Sherlock's brow rose swiftly. "Oh, I promise you… It was memorable."

"Well…" There were so many things that I wanted to say. I wanted to bring back all of the times where I realized I loved him. I wanted to swoon over the little things he did and tell him how frustrated he made me when he showed no affection at all. I wanted to promise that I would never love another man as much as I had, did, and would love him. Yet, the words just would not come. John and Simza had begun to notice our discussion and I could feel six eyes beating down upon me. "I'm sorry. That's all I wanted to say."

Sherlock said nothing. I knew he was watching every movement I made. His thoughts were what puzzled me. Was he loathing me? Was he pleased with what I had said? There wasn't enough time to think. We would be in Paris soon, and if I did not get the tiniest bit of sleep before we reached our destination, I feared I would be even more useless than what I had been before.

And so, I let my head fall against the wall. Words from all moments of our time together started flooding into my head like waves.

_"I do not __keep __you. I want you here because… It doesn't matter. You are not worthless. You are… Everything." _

"_Sherlock, why are you doing this?"_

"_Because… Because I love you!"_

"_Renadale, do you have feelings for me? I mean, do you-"_

"_I love you." _

Though my eyes were shut, and my chest lightly moving up and down, I was not asleep. These thoughts could not bring me to sleep. And yet, I was happy for it. They were the sweetest dream I had ever known. When the case was over, I could only hope that there would be more.

~.~.~.~.~.~

"Renadale, how did you manage to sleep? We practically drove through the center of Paris and you didn't move at all." John was asking me as he nudged me back into reality. "Take my hands, darling. We've got places to go and people to see, not to mention the time crunch we often find ourselves in."

I finally opened my eyes, only to find John looking up at me with that handsome smirk from the ground. There was laughter in his eyes and I wondered how he could find the positive in so dark of times. His hands were reaching up towards me, ready to help me out of the cart.

"Are we here?" I muttered, curls of every size falling in front of my eyes. John only laughed. I took that as a yes. My hands shakily reached for his until he pulled me down swiftly and effortlessly

"Yes, darling. We're here." I could tell he was a bit nervous about everything by the warmth and moisture of his hands. I had noticed that happening to me when I was in situations that I didn't wish to be in; my hands would grow damp and my temperature would rise.

While the others talked amongst themselves, I tried to take in my surroundings more properly. The side of the cart read, 'Les Sept Grenouilles', and though I had no idea what that meant, the word above it was very clear to me. "'Restaurant'? We were traveling in a stolen food vehicle?" Simza only shrugged as if it were the last thing that mattered. I couldn't help but feel nauseated by this. Then again, a lot of things made my stomach turn.

"Renadale, we're going."

Sherlock's voice drew my attention, and before I had even noticed, we were left alone. The others were marching on ahead with determination in their steps. "I'm terribly sorry." My feet rushed to catch up to the rest of the group, but stopped when a light tug was felt at my coat.

Sherlock was waiting for me to turn around. When I finally did, his eyes were wide with concern and fatigue. The alarm read more easily and I quickly asked him what was the matter. "It's you," he replied. "You don't seem to be yourself. I don't want to take you anywhere that you might feel unsafe or unsure. If something were to go wrong, and you weren't entirely conscious…"

A small smile broke out onto my face. My fingers reached for his, where they send a light squeeze. "Lack of sleep is what's eating away at me. Whatever happens, I can take care of it myself. I've had a pretty good teacher."

"Yes, but I will watch out for you-"

Before he could say another word, I seized the chance to get a bit closer to him. We were alone in the short alley, and who knew for how long? My lips brought themselves to his before he could comprehend what was happening. When I finally moved away, I managed to whisper one last phrase to him. "Need I remind you that I saved your life?"

"Perhaps that was brash of you."

"Sometimes I can't be controlled." A mischievous twinkle flickered in my eyes. I saw Sherlock's face fall, as if he had misunderstood my words. His eyes searched my face for reassurance, but I turned away with a grin before he had the chance to figure it out.

I felt even filthier than I had before. And yet, I wasn't bothered.

The Paris night was growing darker, and as we made our way into a restaurant kitchen, it dawned on me how different this case was from the rest. Bronze pans and pots were boiling, clinking and clanking on every side of me. Cooks sat down to finish their lunches as apprentices worked until their backs sweat. Everything smelled delicious, but that one thought continued to eat at me.

_What had they talked about last night?_

_Food?_

_Was there something to do with food? _

My head almost throbbed as I tried to pick out the conversations from last night. All of the words formed one massive speech in my head and I could hardly pick out the voices from one another. Trying too hard to remember, my head began to ache and my fingers instinctively flew to my forehead. "Oh, stuff and nonsense!"

I didn't have time to properly calm my stress, before a tall French man grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me towards him. I nearly shrieked in surprise, but when his hands began to pat me up and down, I knew I had reached my frustration's peak. My fingers swatted at his wrists until I heard the smack of pain. He pulled his hand away in shock, his thick brows rising.

"Renadale, they're just searching us to see if we have any weapons," Watson whispered. "Don't you remember what we discussed last night?" All it took was one bemused look to make Watson remember. "Oh, right. I've forgotten."

The man resumed his business, all the while to my displeasure. We were soon out of that situation and instead facing a winding, gloomy staircase. "No matter what the case is…" I began to tell Watson, "… we always end up facing a horrible staircase into darkness. Why is that?"

"Perhaps it comes with the job description."

We continued down the steps as pebbles chipped off from the scraping of our feet. I could feel the air growing cooler as we travelled further into the abyss, but when we reached the bottom, it was the coolest of all.

Now there were only four of us. Sherlock, John, Simza and myself. The gypsy woman seemed to know exactly what she was doing the second she hit the floor. A man sat in the center of the room, his roughly patched jacket facing us without any interest. I could not see Simza's or the man's face, but got the feeling that neither were very thrilled.

"Still hiding in basements?" She cursed with barely a bat of her eyelids.

An elegant French voice replied with words that were unknown to my ears. I stood closer to the staircase where I could lean against a wall and watch the scene unfold. _Sometimes my life is more exciting than an opera._ I wouldn't be of much help anymore. Especially since I didn't even know why I was there.

My mother was right. I should have just made hats.

"I'm not here to see you." Simza's voice was so firm that she could have been mistaken for a ruler. She would certainly have my vote, if I were able to give one. Or maybe it was because she frightened me.

The man only continued in his native tongue, until suddenly he changed his mind. "… with your English friends."

His words caught me off guard, but not my partners. They had little interest in the speaker. Despite their lack of attention, I knew that there was a mess coming. I could always tell. It wasn't too difficult to notice when the French man's arms grew stiff and the hairs on his neck could be seen standing up from the kitchen upstairs.

Sherlock began to make a comment about the wine, but my eyes could not help but be fixated on Watson. His nose brushed against a blank sheet of paper as his eyes squinted in deep thought.

_Why would he do that? What does the smell of paper have to do-_

_Oh._

_Yes, I remember._

"The wine," I whispered. "The drawing and the wine on the paper! Ah, it's all coming back to me now."

It was finally my turn to see the French man's face. He turned in his seat to get a better look at me, but his face was not amused. "Who is this? Est-elle stupide?" Shelock seemed pleased by this comment, judging by the hearty laugh he let loose. I could do nothing but frown. His words meant nothing to me. "She's pretty, but she doesn't seem like she would be very helpful."

"Useful," I corrected. The man did not scare me and I felt free to speak my mind. His beard and hair were almost white. His eyes were tired and his cheeks were unshaven. He looked like a tired father who just wanted to see his family after a long and dramatic day at work. "I think I help out when I can. I do what is asked of me and I do it to the best of my ability. Whether or not I'm useful… Well, that's a different story."

Surprisingly, the man formed a smile. I was too shocked to return the gesture. "Perhaps I was wrong about your friend. Not so stupid at all."

_Oh, _I thought darkly. _So that's what 'est-elle stupide' means. I supposed I was rather dim not to pick up on that._

"This is not what I came here for," Simza's voice was as sharp and cold as ice. "I want to know, and you _will_ answer me. Is my brother here?" Her voice was nearly a shout.

_Don't show weakness, _I thought. _You're much more vulnerable that way. _

"I haven't seen him for a long time," the man casually answered.

Her black eyes narrowed like slits. She had the look of the raven about her and her talons seemed ready for clawing and her beak ready to bite. "You're _lying_."

The man was silent for a moment. His head finally nodded towards the chair opposite him. "Sit. Please." Simza and Sherlock followed his wish, but John spoke up before the French man had a chance to.

"A letter was received from Rene, using this same paper."

"Of course," Sherlock said casually. "He took it with him wherever he went." His head snapped towards Simza. "He's telling the truth. Rene isn't here." She looked surprised, as if he had no possible way of knowing such a thing. And yet, it was Sherlock Holmes.

The French man spoke between mouthfuls of food. "He was given another assignment"

"By an anonymous benefactor." Sherlock finished.

The man nodded slowly. He grabbed a clean napkin and soiled it with the food around his mouth. "Another _Englishman_ with money. Power. Who supported our cause. And now… he dictates our every move." A huge gulp of wine was still unable to make the man happy. Bitterness lingered on every one of his features. "I made a deal with the devil. But after tonight, it will be over."

The man's eyes were shut as he spoke. I had seen that look before.

Jacob.

I knew what he was planning to do. He was going to kill himself.

There weren't many things that I was absolutely certain about, but when a man had to shut his eyes when he said such powerful words, he did it to hide his emotions. No matter what a man says, death is the most frightening point of one's life. Or rather, not knowing what comes after it. I made my way closer to the group, standing beside Watson with a better view of the speaker.

"My job is almost done," he continued. Sherlock's fingers were crossed over his lips, his eyes unblinking. For a moment, I thought that I had detected concerns. Had he noticed what I had? Or was there something I had not seen?

"He's had you plant another bomb. Hasn't he?"

Watson's exclamation took me off guard. I was noticing things; they just weren't the correct things. "_Another _bomb?" I whispered. Lives lost, buildings burnt, the people's hopes crushed. That's all a bomb brought. Nothing more. Moriarty was a sick man. I was wrong to have ever admired him. "Bastard," I spat out as the thought trickled into my head. "He's a bastard; that's the only word for it. Haven't enough people died?"

"She's right." Simza's agreed. "Claude, _please_. These men can help you."

Claude almost looked as if he would laugh. He straightened himself out a bit and took on a more serious expression. "I wish they could." A long pause lingered in the air as we waited for him to explain. "You see gentleman, he has my wife and children."

Sherlock's head fell to the side in disappointment. "If you tell us where the bomb is… I'll find a way to help your family." His voice didn't sound entirely sure in that remark, but I may have been the only one to pick up on this. Sherlock Holmes was good at many things, but a man cannot always keep his promises. No matter how hard he tries.

"It's already taken care of," Claude said with lowered eyes. "We have a deal."

_That look. _"I know that look," I whispered swiftly to Watson as we watched Claude take another sip of wine. "I've seen it before. He's going to do something brash. _Too_ brash."

"Renadale, what are you talking about?"

Watson's eyes were fixated on me, waiting to explain myself. But I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. If I did something hasty, it might end up badly. Moriarty would kill his family if he was not found dead. We might not be able to stop him. All I could do was listen.

"He and I. No loose ends." My knees grew weak at the phrase. I had heard it far too many times in the past few weeks and it never brought good news. "There's only one thing I can do to keep my family safe."

"No," I whispered hotly to Watson. "This is it. This is what I meant." Watson's eyes darted across my face desperately. My whole body wanted to reach out and stop the man with the wine, but it was frozen. Did no one know what was going to happen? Did no one else see?

Claude's eyes did not meet anyone's after that. He was entirely to himself. His thoughts were his own, though he gave us one last warning. "You have less than ten minutes."

"_Don't!_"

Sherlock's words were not enough. The gun was fired. Powder filled the air. Commotion was appearing upstairs and we had ten minutes until the bomb went off. Not to mention we had to get out of there without anyone catching us.

Sherlock's eyes met mine desperately. There was a dead man lying right beside him, but we could not mourn. Simza was beyond herself in shock and yet we could do nothing to calm her or ourselves

"We have to move!" I shouted as the sound of footsteps grew closer. "If we just stand here, they are going to capture us and we will never save those people."

Sherlock merely patted Claude's shoulder, before getting down to business. "John, he has no further need of that pistol. Why don't you take it and guard the stairs?" His partner was swift to oblige. "As for you, Renadale… Help Madame Simza to her feet and her senses."

I was quick to follow orders. Simza was weak when I helped her stand. She was no longer the strong-minded woman I once feared. "Are you alright?" She had no time to answer, before Watson shot off two warning bullets up the staircase. Her whole body jumped in response. "It's alright," I reassured. "We're going to get out of here and find your brother."

"There's only one way out of this place!" John shouted from the staircase.

Sherlock was merely staring at a wall, but at this point, I knew him well enough to understand his thoughts without a single word. "There's more than one way out, isn't there?" I asked with my arm still around Simza's.

"Right you are!" Sherlock stepped up to one of the coat hooks on the wall and pulled it down towards the floor. A large clicking noise forced us to look in his direction, where the wall was suddenly opening up before our eyes. "Ah!" His arms spread apart amusedly. "Ingenious. That's the one." He turned to look at me and Simza, our eyes wide with amazement.

I began to speak. "How did you…?"

"Perhaps another time would do for an explanation. Quickly as we can!" While Watson shot off one last warning, Simza and I rushed towards the open passageway. "You know what to do with that sandbag, Watson."

All of us made our way inside of the dark tunnel. The only light was coming from the candles in the wine cellar. Those disappeared almost instantly after John whacked the sandbag to its demise, and were left quaking in the darkness. At least, the females of the group were.

Instead of running up towards an exit, a light began to flicker in the darkness. "Aren't we going?" I asked with heated breath. "What are we doing just standing here?"

"Your patience has never been your strongest suit, Renadale," Sherlock mumbled as the flame flickered to life. "Be patient, darling. Doctor, could you secure that lever?"

Though the men were getting to business, Simza was still struggling to find the truth in her dark reality. "He could have told me. Ravache was strong. He lived for liberty! He would never take his own life!" Her voice was beginning to shake the further she got into her speech. My hand gently found hers in case she might want support. I was shocked when her fingers gripped mine near to breaking.

"Calm yourself," John suggested. I wasn't sure if it was a doctorly order, or if he just wanted her to be quiet. A bomb was going off in about eight minutes. No doubt he was on edge.

However, Simza could not stop thinking of the fate in store for her beloved sibling. "My brother… He… He's _weak_!"

John's head snapped towards her warningly. "Sim. I need you to take a deep breath, and follow us."

I nodded in agreement. "I know this is all overwhelming, but life has a way of surprising you when you least expect it. You don't know that he is dead yet, so don't assume it to be true." Her fingers relaxed a bit more in my own, but her face was moist with uneasy sweat. "Right now, we have to stop this bomb."

"Renadale, come here."

Sherlock's anxious tone tugged me away from the gypsy and towards a large table set up in the secret compartment. There were bits and pieces of woodwork, and paper lying about, but nothing struck me as readily important. "What is all this?"

"Do you recognize that?" Holmes's finger pointed swiftly towards a plank in the center of the table. "I don't want my memory to fail me, but I belive it's…"

"From Don Giovanni." I recognized the 'Imperator' sign like my own rugged boots. "I would remember that any day. It's during the Commendatore scene. Who could forget?"

Sherlock didn't waste a second. "To the opera!" He shouted. I didn't have time to think. There was no time to speak. Before I knew it, his hand was in mine, and we were furthering ourselves into darkness.

~.~.~.~.~.~

**Again, I'm so sorry about the wait! But, here's a fun question for you all! If you could cast Renadale in the film, who would be your first choice? Leave a comment below and let me know!**

**Review please as well! Sorry if it was lacking in romance or anything. ;) **

**MUCH LOVE XXXXXXX**

**~Mistro**


	14. Hidden Remnants

**Hey guys! Great to hear from you! It's so nice to see all of those reviews. (: Hopefully you'll leave some on this chapter as well? I know the story is a bit dull at this point, but things will pick up. Obviously. You've seen the movie!**

**xRDJ: Thanks so much. Calling it a masterpiece really makes me feel like I've done something good. As long as you guys love it, I'll keep writing!**

**Starcrier: Emma Stone? Wow! That's really interesting, I never thought of that before… :o**

**Jillian: Well, hopefully this chapter won't disappoint… (;**

**Nanice: ****-hangs head sadly- Thank you so much for understanding.**

**Evanescence: Oh my gosh, thanks! I always get worried with Sim. She can be a bit feisty at times, but I don't want to make her TOO feisty. (: **

**Haliston: Ah, the gunshot wound! That took place in my second story, chapters 26 & 27. I hope this helps. (:**

**Thanks again for all of the other very sweet reviews. It really means the world to me, so if you would be so kind to tell me what you think about this chapter, I would love that. (: **

**Oh, and BRAVO on all of your casting choices. I'm quite fond of all of them, truthfully, and wish that Rena was actually real for me to cast her. ;) **

**XXOO,**

**~Mistro**

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Crawling out from the ground. Running up stairs. Stepping around puddles. Running so fast that every part of your body hurts, even your ears, which doesn't make sense. I felt like a rat scurrying around. Nothing makes sense when an explosion is about to come. And in an opera house! This was Moriarty's biggest bombing yet and total number of casualties would by sky high._ We_ knew where the bomb would be. _We_ knew it was coming, but the playgoers didn't suspect a thing. There were seven minutes left to prove how fast we really were.

I prayed to whatever God was out there that we could stop it. If we did not succeed in our mission, regret would haunt us. What was the worst part? I knew that Sherlock would never be able to forgive himself.

Surely enough, the opera house square was packed. Men and women walked in the nighttime to some distant, romantic park. Others were finishing up their long days at work. Our feet were flying us through the open space with our gypsy costumes flying behind us, but no one seemed to notice. I wish they had. It might have given us more time if the people knew.

Up ahead, the theater loomed over us like a black cloud. Candles flickered from a few of the windows and though the street was busy with chatter, the theater was filled with music. Despite the dreadfulness of the situation, the Commendatore scene of Don Giovanni was no doubt the perfect time for a detonation. Everyone grew scared at the sight of the fatherly statue singing threateningly, and what was more important, it would have everyone glued to his or her seats.

Exactly the right position.

Check and mate.

We walked into the back entrance of the theater without any troubles. The cast and crew were too busy working on costumes, broken props and hair touch-ups to take notice of four rabble-rousers who happened to stumble inside. Sherlock led us down into the cold costume chambers where dresses and suits of many colors greeted us with limp waves. I presumed Sherlock knew where he was going, but I couldn't help to remind myself that we only had five minutes left.

As we turned a corner and trailed further into the costume room, a strange feeling washed over me. The others were marching ahead, but I could feel something.

Eyes.

I had known that feeling before, but normally it was just my imagination. This time was different. I had never felt so watched in my life. My feet slowly turned me around as the rest of my party disappeared. Though the costume room was dark, I could see him. It was a young man; a _tall_ man with a thick beard and strongly scented cigar. He was looking straight at me and it was then that I realized we were alone.

He was puffing out smoke and staring at me like I was some sort of food he could pack up and take home. Something about his gaze looked familiar, but there was nothing about him that I recognized. Though I was quaking on the inside, I tried my best to keep a sophisticated exterior. "Evening."

He merely tipped his hat down in recognition. Our eyes were fixated only on one another. I thought we might stay like that forever; bird and prey, but his deep voice surprised me. "You don't look like an opera singer."

"No, I'm not. I'm not much of a singer at all."

His head slowly fell to the side. "I didn't know about _you_. No one ever told me. Such a shame that you're pretty, but I took note of it the first time."

_The first time?_ "I'm sorry," I chuckled without any cheerfulness. "I can't say that we've met before. I don't exactly see it as something that you can just…" My voice began to trail off as my memory took me back. That man. I _had_ met him before. He was at Mary and John's wedding! Yet, why was he in Paris? Something wasn't right, but I didn't have time to think. Not to mention… I was completely alone with someone who once admitted they wanted my head.

"Such a pretty young thing, but with the memory of a fish." He blew out a large cloud of smoke in my direction. I desperately swatted it away, but by the time I had opened my eyes, the man was out of sight. Who knew where he was going? Who knew who he was? There were too many questions that were left unanswered and I thought it best not to make things worse by chasing him down.

"Renadale, come!" Sherlock's frustrated voice swam into my ear. When I turned around to face the group, they were all running towards me with flushed faces and disappointed eyes. They weren't stopping. Something was wrong.

"What happened?" My voice was small as it got swept underneath the clamping of our shoes. We were back outside in an instant and the night was even darker than before. "Did something go wrong?"

"I've…" Sherlock's words were tangled. I didn't know if it was because we were running through crowds of people, or if it was because there was something he did not want to admit.

"You've _what_?"

"I've made a mistake!"

No more words needed to be spoken. We had barely a minute left. Sherlock needed to stay focused, not be called out on his mistakes. My lips were sealed in order to preserve Sherlock's sanity.

My head snapped to John. "Where is it?"

"The Hotel du Triomphe!"

And yet… as we ran, I could not help but doubt. We were not going to make it in time. Though the _Hotel du Triomphe _was looking us right in the face, I knew it was too late. We had all been mistaken.

And just before we heard it; the sound of that horrible burst, I could not help but hear the warning voice of Don Pedro, the Commendatore, singing in my head.

_Boom._

_Non si pasce di cibo mortale…_

Screams.

… _chi si pasce di cibo celeste!_

So many screams.

_Altre cure più gravi di queste…_

The heat of a momentary fire warming my face and then disappearing into the night as if it had never happened.

…_altra brama quaggiù mi guìdo!_

Ashes were blowing out of the window.

_La terzana d'avere mi sembra, e le membra fermar più non so._

No loose ends.

Who knew what lay inside? I watched as Sherlock ran towards the entrance, his arm holding me back. "No!" I shouted furiously, pushing my way up beside him. We all rushed inside of the grand hotel, our faces dirty from the smog of the bomb. Though everyone was running away, we were running into abyss.

We were never ones to make wise decisions.

I didn't have time to decide if my stomach could handle it. This was not the first time that death had met my eyes, nor would it be the last. My stomach would have to deal with the situation.

When we finally reached the gold-trimmed door, my head began to pound. The sight was enough to make all of my sense fail and all of the noise that once surrounded me was a single hum. The bodies were spread across the room like a tossed game of chess; it's noblemen broken, shattered and unmoving. The floor was checkered black and white just like a chessboard. However, the Queen was not there. The winning rival was still waiting.

Waiting for his Queen;

Sherlock Holmes.

A startled waiter on the side of the room began to weep. His hands were shaking tremendously and I watched as he stumbled his way from the room. His thin, young body fell to the floor when he made it out into the hallway. I could not stand to watch him any longer. Pain was something I experienced, but too much was always a difficult thing to bear.

When I turned to face the scene again with my stomach all in knots, Sherlock was not where he last was. His crouched body was on the ground with a telescope, viewing a broken window. "What is he doing?" Simza whispered in my ear.

I tried to make sense of it. When I squinted my eyes enough, I could see his line of vision. There was a bullet-sized hole in the glass, certainly man-made and clearly not caused by the accident. Sherlock had every reason to be curious about it. "There is a bullet mark," I said quietly. "It looks like this was a set up." The words churned my stomach. One man was wanted dead, but a handful of others had to pay for it. Was this violence what made the world turn?

"You're absolutely right, Miss Adkins." Sherlock's voice was serious as he retook his ground. His telescope clasped inside itself with frustration shown in the force of Sherlock's action. "We should go and inspect where he was standing."

My eyes flickered towards John and Simza. I pleaded with them to leave if only for a moment. Sherlock's voice was not natural. He needed comforting and I wanted to be the one to give it to him. The two of them understood my wishes and left the room and headed down the stairs.

When Sherlock finally turned around, he knew we were alone. His composure weakened. The stiffness in his shoulders diminished and his eyes began to sparkle from the hallway lights behind me. For a moment, I thought he would tumble to the floor beneath him; his knees were as weak as butter. "Renadale-" He started to speak as his body leaned forward.

I dashed around shattered glass to reach him, my arms just barely stopping his fall. His eyelashes tickled as he flickered them against my neck. Eventually they stopped; his eyes were shut. "Sherlock," I whispered, placing a warm hand on his head. "What have you done to yourself?"

"You know that I could have stopped it." The numbness in his voice was astounding. He felt nothing. There was hardly even regret; he was just stating the facts like normally, but I knew what his heart was feeling. His heart was shattering to pieces like the glass on the floor.

"_No_. You could not have stopped a bomb. Even if we knew where to go, where would we have put the people? Where would we have placed the weapon?" My lips pressed themselves to his mangled heap of hair. "You may have been killed."

Sherlock grunted and drew his head up from my chest. "Perhaps that would have been the best-"

"Don't ever say that again." My words were more than an order. They were a threat. "You are always doing your best. None of us would even know where to go if it weren't for you. If you were not here beside us, the world would be in chaos and a war by now. You are stepping on the hems of Moriarty's trousers and making him slip up. Not anyone can do that." My voice grew small as his eyes trailed over my face. "Only one person can do that."

Sherlock's forehead fell heavily onto my own, his nose and mine coming together. I heard him sigh heavily to himself. He was tossing my words over in his head, but I didn't want him to think about it. He needed to know that my words were the truth. "You would never lie to me," he said with his lips brushing past mine.

"I would never…" The words were hard to utter with his body to intimately close to mine. The setting was grim and unromantic, and I drug him out into the empty hallway. The door shut behind me, and we were in solitude. "… lie to you."

"Because you care for me."

"Because I care for you."

Sherlock's eyes cracked open. They were darker than I had remembered. Whether it was an illusion of light, or a strange change in character, I did not know. Truth was buried in Sherlock Holmes's eyes, which meant that his reality was a nightmare.

"We should go and find the others." Sherlock did not seem excited with this notion. His fingers found their way in mine, trailing over every knuckle, touching every piece of flesh he could find. His breath was shaky as he moved closer towards me, his lips moving desperately over my own. It was as if he needed me. As if I were air and he was beneath the surface.

Sherlock's whole body was against mine. The heat of his body was frustrating me to no end. My fingers lifted to hold his, as if when we let go the world would fall out beneath us. "You're right." My voice was weak as my eyelids flickered shut. My lips trailed over his dirty cheek, and pressed against his ear to send a quiet message. "The others are probably waiting."

I felt his head nod against mine, and though we pulled away for a moment, Sherlock did not manage to regain his composure. "Renadale Adkins… I-I need you."

I did not know what he meant by those four words. Did he need me at that moment? Did he need me forever? Did he need me for something literal? Or did Sherlock Holmes simply_ need_ me? I could have asked him, but instead I kept my tongue free from any inquiries. "Sherlock Holmes…" My arms found their way around him. "I have needed you my entire life. I just never knew it until I met you."

The words sounded a bit old-fashioned, but my heart was true. I could feel it racing as I uttered the words. Feelings were not just finding their way in my heart or my head, but everywhere. I felt it in places where it almost seemed like pain. His effect over me was like a tidal wave, a swirling wind, a volcano. It was too hard to control. It would just come and burst and send shivers across my entire body. I didn't know what to call it. Perhaps there is no word to explain.

Sherlock's hand trickled beneath my hand and planted itself around my neck. Gently, he pulled my head closer towards his, our lips meeting in the most eloquent of silences.

And I knew I loved him. I loved him so fiercely in that moment, and it wasn't because he needed me. And it wasn't because I was there to comfort him. It was because he had forgiven himself. He was a good and honest man that would make up for the lost lives in the near future.

His mouth was warm against mine, and as our lips spread against one another in desire, I could not help but that of one thing that remained true.

_You did not get the chance to save those people. But, Sherlock Holmes, you have saved me. _

~.~.~.~.~.~

"_She's supposed to be a maid for Mister Holmes…"_

"_A maid? Why would he want a maid? He never lets anyone but Mrs. Hudson and the doctor go inside his room. I hear it's a mess in there, so what good would ever come of a maid?" _

_Renadale stood awkwardly on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. She had only been working for Mister Holmes for a couple of days, and already people were suspicious of her. No doubt the man was strange, but there was something she liked about him. _

_Then again, people had never really considered _her _to be normal._

_The two young cooks were discussing the new arrival in the kitchen. Little did they know that Renadale was listening in on the outskirts of the doorframe. "She's very pretty, but I don't think she has worked a day in her life."_

"_Pretty?" One girl whispered in surprise. "Is she? I only saw her for a moment and I figured her to be rather plain." Renadale's stomach twisted against her will. She was not used to compliments, but the criticisms still stung._

_The other girl paused for a moment before she began to speak. "I suppose you're right. When you first look at her, she might seem that way. But she is quite charming if you speak to her a bit more. She has that reserved nature about her, but underneath there is something…"_

"_Something?" _

_Renadale was confused as well. _

"_I'm not sure," the girl sighed. "There must be something special about her though, otherwise Mister Holmes would not still have her come around." _

"_You don't think they're…?"_

_A gasp erupted from the kitchen. "Of course not, Amelia! How could you say such a thing? What a _scandal_! The idea would be unthinkable." The girl's voice dropped to a whisper, but Renadale had moved closer to get a better view. "Mrs. Hudson would never let two unmarried lovers fornicate in the house."_

_Renadale's hands flew over her lips in order not to scream. Her brows scrunched to the middle of her forehead in disgust. What an astonishing idea! She had just met the man! And though he fascinated her, he was no one she would kiss. Not ever! There was not a drop of affection for him in that way. _

"_You're right. It was foolish of me to even think so."_

_The other girl let out a quick laugh. "There might not be anything now, but who knows? Like I said, she's special. Different. So is he. And besides, if Sherlock Holmes has no friends, he must be interested in her." _

_Renadale could not hear any more of this. Her feet took her swiftly up the stairs before she was late for her boss. No doubt he would be displeased if she was. There was nothing about him that made her feel even remotely interesting. He did not view her that way, nor would he ever. _

_Renadale had sworn to herself that it would not be so. For his sake and for hers._

~.~.~.~.~.~

"He took the shot from here…" John explained. We were all standing atop the roof of a nearby building. It was where the shooter must have been. The more the gentlemen inspected the area, the more realistic the idea seemed. "… using a tripod and a shooting stick."

There were three small scuffmarks on the stone rooftop. How Watson noticed them in the darkest part of the night, without even bending down to look at them, was beyond my comprehension.

"And he realized…" Sherlock was crouched on his knees with his eyes fixated on the floor. "… there was a better position." He moved a bit to the right and took his ground more firmly. His spirits were lifting once he had put the past out of his memory. "It's scraped where he dragged his tripod and set it up _here_." Sherlock tapped a spot with his foot. We all looked out into the distance where he was standing and sure enough, Sherlock was right. Right across the square was the shattered window, staring us in the face. "Six-hundred yards."

"Six-hundred and fifty," Watson interjected.

"Not to mention the seven or eight mile-an-hour wind." Simza and I exchanged shocked looks. Shocked, but undoubtedly impressed.

John stared up at the sky. The winds were now still, as if resting for the dead. "He would have needed a wind gage." John's finger pointed to a section of the balcony railing. "In which he placed _here_."

"… And put a cigarette down there." Sherlock's spectacles moved towards a small opening in the artistry of the balcony. In between a flower's leaf and the railing, was a visible burn mark.

"That's incredible," Sim whispered.

My brows rose instinctively. "The mad thing is, they're not even finished yet."

"Can anyone shoot that far?" She asked quizzically.

John looked frustrated as he gave his answer. Whether he was jealous that he could not, or upset that we had not caught the shooter, I could not be certain. "Only half a dozen men in all of Europe."

Sherlock was scooping something up from the ground while the others continued to discuss. He held a small pinch of tobacco between his fingers before moving it under Watson's nose. "And how many of those men served in Afghanistan?"

John's war experience was nearly forgotten to me. It was just more proof that experiences in your life could come in handy at the moments when you least expected it. "Why?" He asked with a whiff of the plant.

"Must have fallen out when he was rolling up. Wasn't that the brand you all smoked?" Sherlock knew that he was right. He was only testing John and waiting for an answer. "Didn't I read something about a Colonel?"

"Sebastian Moran. Best marksman in the British Army." John raised his brows with amusement. "Dishonorable discharge."

Sherlock sighed. "He's likely now a gun for hire."

"Oh _no_."

The words fell from my mouth without me even realizing it. All three of my partners stared at me in confusion. They did not know. _I _had not known. "Oh, I'm such a fool… Such a foolish, foolish woman."

John's hand found my shoulder. Even such a simple touch made me feel guilty and I buried my face inside of my hands. "Renadale, what's bothering you?"

"It's him. Sebastian Moran." My voice was muffled against my palms and somehow I hoped they had not heard me.

"What do you mean, 'It's him'?"

"I met him."

John's hand slid from my shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was exactly the tone I feared it would be. Angry. "What do you mean you _met_ him?! When was this?"

"First it was at your wedding. The next time was today."

"_Today?_"

"At the Opera House."

John was choking on his on words. "A-At… At the _opera house_?" My hands were still hiding my vision, but I felt John's rough ones tear them away from my face. "Renadale, why didn't you say anything? I thought I had picked up some familiar scent, but I hadn't _spoken _to the man."

"I was frightened! I did not know who he was. All I knew was that he wanted me dead the last time we spoke." John's composure eased up when I spoke these words. "When you met with me, you were in such a hurry that I didn't have time to explain myself. He was not someone I knew; he still is not. I did not know his plans, nor did I know what he was capable of."

Sherlock broke in. "She's right, Watson. Don't startle the poor girl."

"Damn it all. I'm sorry, Rena." John's lips turned into a frown. "You know how I can be."

My eyes darted towards my shoes. John was not upset with me, but I was had become disappointed in myself. "I know how you can be."

"But, Renadale…" Sherlock's voice made my head rise. It almost sounded worried. When I saw his face, my thoughts were confirmed. "What do you mean he wanted you dead?"

_Splendid. You really can't keep your mouth shut, can you? _"It's nothing," I mumbled. "If I said such a thing it was merely an accident. I must have been startled by John's sudden ferocity."

"Rena, I repeat my apologies."

John and Simza blew it off easily, but Sherlock held my gaze. He knew I was lying. He would squeeze the truth out of me sooner or later. Moriarty wanted all of our heads. Yet, Sebastian Moran had told me specifically that mine was a personal goal for the professor.

That was probably a very bad thing.

"At any rate…" Sherlock muttered. "This is the second victim of his that I have encountered."

"What better way to conceal a killing?" John scoffed. "No one looks for a bullet hole in a bomb blast."

I could not help but chuckle darkly. My whisper was only heard my Simza. "No one except Sherlock Holmes."

"Why do you think he did it?" She whispered as the boys talked over us. "I mean, what could that man have been doing that made someone want to kill him?"

I thought for a while before responding. When the answer came to my head, I knew it was the only thing possible. "He was asking questions." And then I said no more.

~.~.~.~.~

**You're all so petty.**

**Rooting for these two lovers who are as dim as a broken light fixture.**

**Well. I'm not here to judge your decisions.**

**What you like to read is your business, I suppose.**

**That doesn't mean I like you.**

**Just leave a review and I might consider not killing you.**

**-M**

**(300 reviews, please? ^^)**


	15. By A Thread

**Hey guys! Thanks for all of the LOVELY reviews… Another author's challenge? I think so! Here is the question for today's chapter.**

**If you could invent one new character for the stories, who would they be and what would they be like? **

**Maybe a bit more of a difficult one, but I'm curious to see all your flowing creativity. (:**

_**Haliston- Thanks so much for the sweet review! I'm very glad this story has kept fascinating and enjoying you, and I hope it always will, even after it's end. :) **_

_**I am Alys: Glad to see you back! Hope I didn't keep you waiting for a disappointment. ;)**_

_**CrimsonBottles: You're absolutely wonderful. Hope to hear more out of you soon! **_

_**JilianMastrano: No worries, Moriarty wouldn't hurt such a frequent and wonderful reviewer like yourself!**_

_**SoundzofSilence: The mysteries continue… ;)**_

**Hope this chapter isn't too dull. Things will pick up, I promise. I think I just needed some character development here. :) **

**LOVE YOU ALL LIKE I LOVE RAMEN NOODLES. **

**~MistroStrings**

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Sherlock was kind enough to pay for our rooms in a nearby inn. Watson and Sherlock would have time to catch up, while Simza and I were finally given a chance to meet one another properly. The hotel was small and quaint for one night's rest. We could not afford more than that, but without sleep, we would all be lost physically and mentally. The gypsy attire prohibited a luxurious stay, but I was pleased enough with the cozy, wooden inn.

When we actually made it inside the building, our feet were as heavy as our backs, and our backs were as heavy as our eyelids. Little conversation was passed during the coach ride and whatever was said held minor interest to us all. John had even begun to doze off, startling us all with a repressed snore.

As for Sherlock, he was still ill at ease with his blunder. His lip would curl with the darting of his eyes; a sure sign that he was bothered. The thoughts consumed in his head were written on every fleck of brown in his eye. _I have messed up. He is winning. _

And yet, Sherlock Holmes was not often a man who regretted much. He was able to realize his mistakes and accept them. This was a trait that I had admired from the start, along with many other aspects that were dear to me. Maybe I was the person who knew the most about Sherlock Holmes.

After his dearest doctor, of course.

The four of us managed to slug our way up a narrow staircase, and outside of the two rooms luring us in for sleep. Words continued to stay silent as drowsiness slipped into our veins. We unlocked the door with a fumble, each of us ready for our pillows to meet our heads. But, before Sherlock managed to slink into his room, I snatched his sleeve before he had the chance. John and Simza shut the doors behind us, not even taking note of our disappearance.

My fingers continued to clutch his arm. His eyes watched my hand, until it finally uncurled with hesitation. "Are you alright?" My voice was soft in the empty, unlit corridor.

Sherlock's forehead grew crinkled with thought. Perhaps he was going to empty his heart out, and confess that he was _not _alright, but instead he said very little. "If I am not, I shall find a way to be."

"That is not a proper answer. I cannot deem it acceptable." Sherlock couldn't resist cracking a smile at my stubbornness, but my lips could not depart their downward state. "You have not been happy for some time. Your feelings aren't as easily hidden anymore."

Sherlock's grin shrunk in size until it was barely more than a turn of the lip. "I am happiest when you are."

Responses always seemed to be hard with the detective. Sherlock Holmes needed nothing but solitude and deduction, and I knew this without so much as an utterance. He did not need me as much as he said he did, though I knew that my heart could not beat as strongly without him. With a slow kiss on the cheek, and a gentle touch of his hair, I bid him goodnight with a mere glance. From the corner of my eye, I could see that he was unmoving. His feet were frozen like the frosty air outside, glued forever to the faded carpet.

_He will be alright, _I convinced myself. _Sherlock Holmes is always alright. _And though I managed to turn away from him, even my words were not fully convincing.

There wasn't much time to dwell on our conversation. Simza was patiently waiting for me as I entered the room. Her eyes were as sharp as the knives that she carried beneath her skirt, but something about her face was not threatening. Her hand gestured widely towards the bed, ordering me in silence to sit. Without a second though, I followed the trail leading to the blue sheets.

Simza faced me, her knowing smirk creeping from beneath her raven-like curls. "How long has it been?"

It didn't help that the only glimpse of light was a candle near the door, and Simza's eyes were sparkling like a fox. The words, though I tried to stop them, came out in nervous chokes. "How… H-how long… _what_?"

"How long have you been in love with him?"

My eyes nearly fell from my skull. I was certain that my affections for Mister Holmes were obvious, but I hadn't expected Simza to confront me in such a profound way. She almost seemed upset with the idea, and I half wondered if she held any affection for my boss. "I'm not in love with him…" My response almost sounded like a question.

"Oh, don't lie to me." Her fingers shoved my shoulder back in annoyance. "You are as bad at hiding as the murderer who was in my fortune-telling room. I'm just a curious woman, and when something is on my mind, an answer must be placed with it."

My shoulders rose with instinct. I could barely bring my eyes to her face, instead planting them on the dusty window. "We're merely friends." A bitter chuckle was all the answer I received. If there was no confession from me, there would be no sleep for either of us. "Alright, if you must know, then I… I shall tell you." _Why are you doing this, Rena? What does it matter if she knows?_ "I've held affection for him as long as I can remember. There was a time when I thought it impossible, but somehow that all changed. Now I know there is no one else for me in this world." My confession shocked even myself.

"When did you meet?"

"I can't put a date on it." My attempt to recall failed. "Nearly a year ago, perhaps? I had only just turned twenty-five." Twenty-five. Such a perfect age for naïvety. So innocent and so _foolish_. Unfortunately, I hadn't changed much. "He hired me as a maid."

Simza let out a hearty laugh. "His maid? By the looks of it, it seems as if you've never cleaned a day in your life and he hasn't bothered to either." She took a seat beside me, her scowl transforming into a smile. "On the other hand, there is nothing that can be said on my part. The only things I wash are my dishes and myself."

Her words managed to put a smile on my face and a small laugh in my throat. When she suddenly started laughing along, something in my heart swayed. This woman was not anyone to be fearful of. All she wanted was her brother; her last drop of blood. She was still very young and her heart was prone to breaking. We both had someone taken away from us and we were both sensitive when it came down to things.

Perhaps we weren't as different as I had thought.

"I've never been in love." Instead of sounding sad, Simza was amused. "There was one man that had me fooled, but I hated the feeling it gave me in the pit of my stomach, so I pushed him aside." My face twisted in sadness for the beautiful gypsy, but instead of being heartbroken she began to chuckle. "My mother would always complain that I would never get married; that I was just as much of a boy as the rest of them." Simza wagged her finger knowingly. "When I showed her my strength and my fighting skills, she never complained again."

"Where did you learn to fight? I've wondered since the day of the stag party. Watching you was truly incredible."

She smiled modestly, obviously not used to such compliments. "Don't spoon out such big words; not to someone who doesn't deserve it. Some of the boys in camp were kind enough to teach me. Once I started beating them all, I began making up my own tricks." She gave me a wink. "I've heard that even you know some moves."

_Well, that's kind of Sherlock to tell her, considering I can barely remember a thing. _"He's taught me minor fighting skills, but it was something my body could not fully grasp. I suppose I'm more of a peaceful woman."

"Irony," Simza spat.

My brows came together in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"You're fighting for peace, are you not?" Her head turned to the side. "This Professor is threatening to bring war, not just upon the Continent, but the entire world." I could feel my face growing as white as the carpet. "You're fighting to stop him. You're fighting for peace. That is called irony, if I remember my English correctly."

"I think the fact that _I'm _the one fighting is… Well, _that's _just called stupidity."

Simza could not seem to wipe the smile from her face. Surely I was like a newborn to her, innocent and foolish, and even so I was glad to grant her some happiness in so dark a time. Despite how short that happiness would last. "I think the time is right. Here and now."

Somehow, in the dark, with Simza's deep and powerful voice, I was starting to get the wrong message. My body inched further away from her. "What… exactly are you talking about?"

Simza shot me an annoyed glance. "Time for me to read your cards." She began to rattle off curses in French at my foolish assumptions. That was the first time I was glad of my nonexistent translation skills. Without an agreement from me, Simza pulled a deck from her pocket. The bent and torn sheets of parchment were tied together with a long, lace ribbon. Simza's fingers untied the pack breezily, as she had so many times before. "I want you to take out three cards." I watched as her bare hands spread the deck across the bed sheets. "Feel it. Don't think."

Doing as I was asked, though undoubtedly thinking somewhat about my choices, I slid three cards from their spots. They looked up at me with detailed, regency designs, the tales underneath waiting to be told. "Do I turn them over?"

"Let me," Simza said gently. The first card turned over slowly. An eternity might have passed, but I was captivated by the face that greeted me. An old man with withered hands turned his back towards us atop a mountain. He held a single lantern, facing it out towards the empty valley beneath him. He was not completely alone, but his only companion was a mangy wolf with unforgiving eyes. "The hermit," Simza whispered. "This card represents your past. You lived a life of solitude, silence and loneliness." My heart twisted at the depressing sketch. It twisted, because she was right. "These are not bad traits. It means that you have learned to follow your own counsel, and that you have the strength to go through life alone, if you ever have to."

"Alone?" I whispered. "Why would I ever be alone?" _Sherlock Holmes, you promised that you would always be with me. _Surely, he would not break his word.

Would he?

Simza didn't wait for me to think of an answer, nor did she give one. Instead, her dirty nails flicked over the next card. A large wheel faced us. It was golden like the morning sun, but with black symbols etched around its curves. I could not understand the meaning, but along with the wheel, a Sphinx was grinning back at me. "The wheel of fortune," Simza's face was smiling now. "This is a good card for your present. It represents the changes that your life is going through. These could be positive or negative changes, but as we have learned, you have the strength to follow your own path, no matter what these alterations bring."

And finally, the last one. The future. _My_ future. Normally, I might not have believed these things, but she had been right about the other two. What would this bring? I crossed my fingers and prayed for something sweet, such as the lovers or the sun. Instead, what I got was far less glorious, but far more heart-racing.

"What is that?" I whispered fearfully. "Simza, what is that supposed to tell me?"

"The hanged man…" Her voice was as low as the sun beneath the horizon. We both stared into the black card, the man's eyes watching us without any affection. He did not hang from his neck. Instead, he hung from his ankles, but somehow it was just as frightening. He looked relaxed, and yet sad, as if he had no other option in his life. "This card represents catastrophic changes yet to come."

"Catastrophic?" My repeated whisper could not help to shake. Every chill that could possibly breeze through the room must have at that very moment. My whole body went numb and as frigid as ice. "Does that mean that I cannot handle these changes?" Another question trickled into my mind, but would not come out upon my lips.

_Could this mean an end to something?_

Simza hesitated with her answer. After a minute of struggling, she finally swept up the cards from their pile and tucked them back into her skirt's pockets. "These are just nonsense. I do it for money, you know. None of it is real." She was lying. Her eyes never once met mine, and a strong woman such as herself would have the nerve to tell it to my face. But, even she did not. Even she knew that my life was left to fate.

Something bad was going to happen if these cards were truthful.

Something I feared would change the course of my life forever.

Despite her ignorance of the cards and my shaking fingers, I managed to draw my attention to something else. I tried to think about my father, my mother, _anything_. The image of the blonde man with his tied ankles dissolved quickly from my mind.

"You're very strange, Renadette Adkins."

"Renadale," I replied bitterly.

She shrugged. "Even your name is strange."

"And Simza is not?"

Her brow rose in unison with the corner of her mouth. "Touché, ivrogne. Touché."

"Ivrogne?" I recalled that name from the gypsy camp. It was tossed in my direction quite frequently ever since. "What does that mean?"

She did not answer me with words, but only another knowing smirk. The woman was playing games with me, but I somehow didn't mind. Though no one seemed to have touched the bookshelf across the room in years, Simza pulled out a blue cover with ease. A long trail of dust flew off with it, causing a cough within my throat. Without warning, the book was flung in my direction and just nearly passed my fingers. The title looked unfriendly as I glanced at it in my open hands.

_The French to English Dictionary. By Martin LeGasteron. _

I flipped through the pages quizzically, until reaching '_I'_. My eyes searched for the mystery, but my only reward was a burning in my cheeks. The translation fell from my shocked lips. "_Drunkard?!"_

With good reason those gypsies had called me that. And yet, alcohol was not something I favored. The last thing I wanted was for Sim to think this way, especially when we were finally warming up to one another. My head snapped to Simza to try and explain my behavior, but it was too late. The gypsy was fast asleep.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The next afternoon, Sherlock insisted that we go and eat at the café beneath the Eiffel Tower for a quick chance at French biscuits and tea. He would join us later on, for he had some quick business to attend to. I made no complaint; food was beginning to become almost unknown to me. The thought of something sweet made my head spin with desire.

Sherlock had awoken that morning with a smile so wide that it could only make the rest of us feel a bit worried. He was pleased with himself for some reason or another, and with the rest of humanity, though none of us could place our finger on the reason.

"He's getting rid of the stress from yesterday," Simza had muttered to me when we made our way out of the inn. "All of that emotion building up inside of him… It's not good for his soul."

"_All of that emotion?_" I repeated. "I never thought Sherlock would be equipped with such a phrase."

When we finally reached the café, it was nearly twenty minutes that we had to wait for Sherlock Holmes. _Why?_ We hadn't the slightest idea, but naturally we had hoped that it would be important.

My questions were no longer barricaded in my brain with the sudden arrival of Sherlock Holmes. Without a word to the others, or myself, Sherlock grabbed my hand and drug me up to order with him: a perfect opportunity for me to solve this happy-Sherlock riddle. "The finest tea in France belongs to this café," he said. "It shall be all ours, as a treat for our long and weary travels."

Jovial Sherlock was something I could get used to, despite the fact that it was neither who he was, nor whom I knew him to be. My dark brows came together in my forehead, allowing visible confusion to pass my face. We were waiting in line to order, the rest of the well-dressed crowd taking no note of our shabby appearance. "Something is different about you."

His hands clasped together greedily. "I've had a breakthrough, Renadale."

"I had thought so. Nothing else makes you light up so much." _Not even me, _I thought glumly. He was practically bouncing off the walls with amusement at himself. "What is making you like this? You snuck of this morning to attend to business, and now you can't wipe a smile from your face."

"You shall find out when take our seat with the others. All of the information I have gathered will have light shed upon it… Everything will be awoken."

Sherlock Holmes was not just happy, despite his cheerful tone of voice. If I could describe him as anything in that moment, it would have been _grey_. Dark circles around his eyes were no longer swollen, but rather imbedded into his skin. His eyes flickered every time a glance of sun came our way, and only then did I pick up on his 'business'. "You didn't sleep at all, did you?!" My question was almost a gasp of accusation. "After I left you outside of the room, you never even went in!"

"Do you have any proof?"

"You went rambling around Paris at night! Your face says it all without your jaw moving an inch."

"I suppose it was more of the _morning_."

"Sherlock." My voice was firm. "You need to rest. I know this is a difficult task for you, perhaps the hardest in your eyes, but I think it is one of the easiest tasks you shall have to face in the next few days. And I can tell that this lack of energy is taking its toll on you. Or, at least, it _will_."

Sherlock scoffed at my lengthy warning. "You truly think that? I feel absolutely wondrous."

Sherlock Holmes was sleep deprived. I knew that was true, but I sighed and said nothing else. He ordered five teacups, one for each of us, along with a plate of biscuits. When he was not looking, I ordered one more for him in hopes that it would help keep him awake. While we waited in line, I attempted to bring up an issue that was bothering me. "I wanted to ask you something." Sherlock wasn't paying much attention. His eyes were fixated on someone outside, an inspector. He was having a conversation with a group of men and women, and I could presume it was not a good one. Sherlock hadn't heard a word that I had uttered. "Sherlock…? You see, my birthday is coming up soon, and-"

"Monsieur Holmes?"

A young woman behind the counter slid a silver platter in our direction. Five cups of tea, a pot for the rest of it, and some elegant sweets laid spread out like the tarot cards. I eyed the snacks carefully, my stomach growling as my mind drifted away from my previous inquiries. "Let me taste it." My fingers snacked a shortbread cake from the tray, slipping it between my teeth with a hasty desire. Sherlock watched as the biscuit disappeared in seconds, to which I could only return a crumbly smile. "Just making sure it wasn't poisoned."

A flicker of the old Sherlock returned with his amused smile. "I'm sorry, had you been saying something before?"

He hadn't been listening to my birthday comment. I presumed as much. All I could do was give him a tight smile and shake my head. My birthday was nothing we needed to worry about, but it was just that… I wanted to do something special with him. Just the two of us.

Wishful thinking was all it was.

"Let's continue on then." A force smiled stretched across his unshaven face. "Before the tea gets cold."

I watched him leave that spot with quick steps. He shuffled into the covered table beside Simza, beginning to speak as if nothing had ever happened. My own feet would not move. Sherlock's actions that day had been so off. One second, he was as happy as a fool. The next, he was as sorrowful as a raven.

Though my own thoughts were enticing, missing out on the table's conversation would certainly bury me in trouble for the future. I quickly made myself known to my companions, scooting in besides John. Sherlock was finishing a sentence as I made my way over. "… or consider what we know?" He continued. "Last night's bombing was clearly meant to look like Germany's retaliation for Strasbourg."

"That wasn't the only reason." My whisper was heard across the table.

"Correct," Sherlock nodded. "The bomb was also meant to conceal the murder of just one man. The man killed by the gunshot was none other than Alfred Meinhard."

Simza's soft biscuit fell from her mouth in confusion. She said nothing behind her mouthful of food, but instead shared the same exact look that I was wearing. Uncertainty.

"He makes guns," John clarified, spreading his arms at the length of the table. "_Big _guns."

"Oh." My voice was small when I spoke. "Well that's… not good. Is this because of Moriarty's fetish with causing war?" Sherlock only had to shoot me a look for me to fully understand the truth of it. "He's taking ownership of all of these dead men's business. He's making money off of them, and just waiting for the bodies to stack up as the bills stack up with them." Even my own dark words taunted me, but the truth was staring us right in the face. I was no longer afraid to look at it.

"Only days ago, a large share of his company was bought by an unknown investor." Sherlock rose his cup to his lips with a raise of his brow. We all knew who that 'unknown investor' was. A red, bearded man with a stomach burning for power.

John scoffed. "Moriarty."

"The clues point in one direction, but to avoid repeating last night's debacle… I was obliged to collect more sufficient data, hence my tardiness." Sherlock kept his voice low as the groups of people around us began to grow.

There was a smile creeping onto his face, but he swiftly hid it behind the rim of his cup. He wasn't fast enough for my eyes, and with a firm setting down of my cup, I looked him square in the eye. "What did you do now?"

He fumbled with words for a second, the story probably sounding better and more sensible in his head. In the end, his decisions were probably the decisions fit for a fool, but he would have to come out with them eventually. We all waited for an explanation as the sun danced hotly onto our backs. "I may have gotten myself into a bit of a mess, but I promise, it was worth it in the end."

"What disguise did you use this time?" Watson asked casually, munching on a small shortbread.

Sherlock sighed. None of us were supporting his escapades, making him feel all the more foolish. Regardless, our curiosity was still there and that was enough to satisfy the detective. "Old librarian." Long white bread, long white hair, small spectacles and eyebrows more bushy than a cat's tail. I remembered him fixing it up back in Baker Street, but not once did I actually expect it to be used. How wrong I was. "He has a habit of feeding that urban species, the feral pigeon." We all waited to see where that fact would take us. "So. There are seven mainline railway stations in Paris. But, taking ten minutes to get to the Jardin des Tuileries… where the largest concentration of the winged vermin may be found…reduces there to one, the Gare du Nord. Where he will be just in time to catch the 11:04 train to Berlin."

My eyes narrowed. "Did they say all of this and you listened in, or do you just somehow know these things?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. Without moving his lips, his eyes spoke to me. _Renadale, my sweet thing, you really needn't ask such a question. _"It makes several stops along the way," he continued. "One of which is-"

"Heilbronn," Watson said with a satisfied smile. He set his cup down with amusement, almost as if this game were too easy for the likes of him.

"Exactly where we must go," Sherlock agreed with a distant stare. Something wasn't right about the German city's name trickling into his ears. It sent him a dissatisfied shiver down his spine, the idea of the place possibly frightening. And yet, why would Sherlock Holmes be scared? He had bested Moriarty for this long, and this far, so what was one more chase? The cat was chasing the mouse and it nearly had its paw on the tail. I just hoped we would always be the cat.

Sherlock still did not seem keen on the idea, but Watson was still more than entertained. "What is in Heilbronn?" I asked quizzically. "Is it something we should be weary of?"

"We should be weary of everything, Miss Adkins," Sherlock said softly. "The days grow shorter and the nights shrink with them. We have little time to take care of ourselves, each other, as well as watch our own backs." His gaze was lost to us. "The whole fate of humanity seems to be in our hands. If we mess up things in Heilbronn, it could be catastrophe for all."

"Meinhard's factory is in Heilbronn," Watson clarified. "With the large guns and every other weapon you could probably imagine. If they spot us breaking in, we'll be done with. And I don't think it will be with money to return home."

My face twisted slowly towards my friend. His blue eyes met mine with worry, but they too whispered me reassurance. _Sherlock Holmes has bested Moriarty before, and that is what we will do again. With the help of you, of course. _"Are there bombs there?" No one bothered to answer me. Suddenly, the cookies and tea no longer looked appetizing.

"It's Moriarty's factory now," Sherlock grumbled. "Unfortunately, due to the bombing, the crossing between France and Germany is to be closed. I'm afraid our pursuit is over, unless we can happen upon a comrade who knows their way around _borders_…" The air grew still as Simza stared off into the distance. Six pairs of eyes were glued upon hers, but she did not meet a single pair. After a moment or two, we watched her rise from her place. Fire was flickering in her eyes as her chains and jewels clanked against one another. It was almost a battle position; an idea was turning and wheeling through her head. Though we were going to break the law, sneak into a country illegally, and most likely toss ourselves into a land of guns, bombs and other explosives, Simza found no large issue with any of this. Her voice was firm when she finally spoke, and even the sweet violin music nearby couldn't calm my nerves.

"Get off of your chairs, gentlemen. I've got just the thing."

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

Simza took up deep into the forest. Our gypsy disguises were back on and completely believable, but little did we know that we were soon about to stumble upon something that would_ really_ dip our toes into the characters. Though the three of us did not know where we were headed, Simza was adamant that this was the best, and the _only _way that we would cross the border into Germany.

Her and John talked idly in front of Sherlock and I, our tired feet lagging us from a swift journey. The birds chirped in conversation above us, the morning dull cooling down behind the leaves. The sounds and scenes were sweet, and I warned myself to take them in while it lasted. Sherlock and I were nothing like the animals fluttering above us. No words passed between our lips. No kind thoughts were exchanged, nor any dull ones. There were things I wanted to ask him, but they were selfish and I forced my tongue to be bit.

"You seem to be quite fatigued today, Miss Adkins."

"Since when did you decide to be formal?" I had thought that the 'Miss Adkins' was long gone. He used to use it in uncomfortable, or angry situations. Was there something I wasn't seeing? "I'm not tired. If anything you're the tired one." There was a different side of my voice, and Sherlock was quick to note it. He only stared down at me with concern until I finally let loose a sigh and confessed myself. "Last night I could not sleep."

"Why is that?"

"Simza…" I struggled with the words. "She read my cards."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his boots sticking to the muddy ground beneath them. His dark features blended in strikingly with the green of the nature pouring out around him. Even though he was unwashed and it wasn't the right time, I could not help finding him completely beautiful in that moment. Beautiful in the face, the soul, and in the mind. Every time he spoke, touched me, or even looked at me, my whole world shook. I could not be upset with him. "What did they say? Surely you didn't lose sleep over such a minor thing."

My eyes flickered away from his. I could not tell him the truth. Not because it would hurt him or bother him, but because I still could not admit it to myself. "They said very little. I just couldn't sleep… that's all. Perhaps the mattress was badly made."

He was smarter than I was giving him credit for, but he asked me no more questions. His hand reached out gently to touch my arm, leading me back onto the trail. Just before we turned the corner to meet the others, Sherlock managed to send a whisper against my ear. "If you ever cannot sleep again, please come and get me." The burning in my stomach returned, sending shock waves throughout my entire body. "I will sit up with you all night, if I must." His eyes were still glossy and smooth compared to his scratched and scarred skin. "You should know that I would like nothing better."

There was only one thing I knew how to say. There was only one response I could utter to show him my appreciation. _I love you. _And yet, I couldn't say it. I had said it before, but only once, and ever since it would not come easily to my voice. "Thank you."

His eyes never left my face, but I could see his chest beginning to rise and fall as fast as the birds were flying above us. Those two little words seemed to mean more to him than they would to another. Perhaps he knew that secretly, a third word was slipped in there, and that my appreciation was another declaration of love. He tried to make an audible response, but I turned away before he could manage it. Obviously, Sherlock Holmes struggled to wrap his head around an idea that was staring him right in the face.

He was mine, I was his, and nothing could break us.

"Too English!" I heard Simza bark, snapping me from my daydreams. Her fingers swiftly swapped her ragged hat with Watson's proper one. He seemed disappointed by this, but it did make him fit in with the rest of the group. Well, as much as John _could _fit in with a company of gypsies.

Sherlock mocked his friend with a chuckle. "I think you make a fantastic gypsy."

"I certainly _smell _like a fantastic gypsy." Watson's heated breath only sent laughter into our own. He brushed dust from his hat, making his way over to a line of horses set up amongst the trees. "Unsanitary business, these sort of things. Riding horses, wearing dirty clothes… After all, I am a doctor. I should be taking much better care of myself."

"You're a married man," Simza said amusedly. "You won't have time for yourself anymore."

The sight of the horses took me by surprise. All of the horses were energetic and ready to go, reminding me a bit of myself at the start of my Sherlock Holmes adventures. I had always loved horses, but seeing them out in the wild was much more spellbinding than watching them drag me around the city. The horses had no choice but to help our race, and we made them suffer for it. The gypsy lives actually made much more sense than the city ones. They were in touch with nature, their families, and themselves. All we cared about was business and how to make our pockets bulge.

My fingers stretched out towards an unoccupied black horse's nose. "Hello, darling. Are you to be mine?" It huffed towards me, but the heat of its breath was comforting rather than chilling. The animal's nose pressed against my palm, enjoying my touch. It liked the feel of my fingers against its skin, and I wondered how long it had been since the creature had seen affection. "You're a beautiful thing, aren't you? We're going to get along just fine." I was far too distracted by the beautiful animal to take notice of the scene playing around me. Before I knew it, Sherlock's petrified voice was flickering through the trees and into my eardrums.

"They're dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle. Why would I want anything with a mind of its own bobbing about between my legs?"

My head snapped instantly towards the speaker. If my eyes had been large already, they were the size of the horse's then. "I'm sorry?" My voice scoffed with unhidden shock. "_What _is it we're talking about here?"

"I shall require a bicycle, thank you very much!" Sherlock continued with his rant, not taking any notice of my horrified question. "It's 1891! I could have chartered a balloon!" Sherlock turned his back from the scene, literally making his distance from the creatures. He wandered off on his own private pity gathering, none of us having any desire to join in. My question remained unanswered, but I quickly learned that it had been a horse that he was talking about.

At least, I hoped it had been a horse.

"What's gotten into him today?" I whispered to John, tightening my supplies onto the saddle. "He's been acting so strange lately, and nothing I say seems to make its way into his brain. Sometimes I feel like we shouldn't even be here. In the end, I think it will come down to the Professor and himself and we will be of little us."

"Don't put yourself down, Rena. Sherlock might act that way, but without us he's lost. It's just that he doesn't like horses." John laughed at the ludicrous idea. "He can ride them, but he really has little fondness for them. They're very intelligent and he likes being the smartest man in the room." John looked genuinely worried as his already appearing wrinkled furrowed. "For a moment there, I thought he might actually not be joining us." John scrunched up his face in amusement and displeasure before addressing the gypsy woman. "How can we make this more …manageable?"

Simza stopped to think it through, before a white smile crack onto her dark skin. She shot us both a bemused smirk, a childish side of her beginning to come out. "I know just the thing." There was a long pause as the laughter caught in her throat. "We'll fetch him a pony."

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

**If you are interested in seeing what the tarot cards look like, I imagined them to look like the ones from**

**Tarot – cards . net**

**(:**

**Have a look, if you're interested! **

**Xxx**

**And please review, getting to 300 made my day last time, and the next chapter will provide much more action and excitement! **


	16. Temptations for Destruction

**Whoa! Thanks for the lovely reviews! I really wasn't expecting such kind words for that dull chapter, but hey, as long as you like it, then I suppose I must as well. :)**

**Hope you all enjoy the chapter. X**

**~MistroStrings**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

"Keep up, old boy!" I shouted to Sherlock behind me as the wind swept through my hair. With a loud holler, I gripped onto the top of my hat to avoid it from falling off. Not that I cared if it did. Being a gypsy wasn't exactly my forte. The wind was stronger in the open valley than it had been in the woods, and I could sense the chill wrapping its way around my bones. We had been riding for nearly an hour, but Sherlock could never manage to keep up.

The whole time, he bobbed behind on his miniature pony. Literally bouncing up and down across the hills, forests and valleys of France, Sherlock was rewarding me with an endless sixty minutes of amusement. There was nothing as glorious as that scene replaying inside my mind when I had to face forward. And when I did not, I merely turned and watched it play out.

However, duty called and my feet tightened around the horse's stomach, kicking him into a full run. I passed the others with swiftness, my horse never once failing our momentum. The direction was a minor concern, but not a trace of worry could be found upon my face. It had been so long since the Earth had shown herself to me. Her beauty was buried deep within my memories, too far for touching and grasping. Now was the time to make new memories; new memories of a land that I never dreamed of exploring.

"Rena!" Simza's voice appeared at my side as she kicked her horse into full throttle. The pet name startled me a bit, causing my grip to lessen. "You've become a horse master in one day, is that it?" All I could do was laugh in response. I could not remember the last time I had been so happy, nor felt so brilliantly at peace with nature. "You laugh now, but it won't be for long!"

Could she be talking about Moriarty's plans? Before I had the chance to process her threat, Simza's horse was running before mine. I had to halt Misha, the black beauty that led my journey, in order to let her safely pass. "That's not fair!" I gasped against the loud wind. "You've got a head start! You never even…" She was far from a hearing radius. Almost a mile, to be exact. With another swift flick of the reins, my horse was rushing to her sidelines.

The mountains gave us shelter as the velvet grass crumpled beneath the hooves. We were not killing it, oh no, but in a way the grasses were bowing to us as we squashed them down to size. Bowing at our speed and lightness, our adventure and our gallantry. There had never been a more beautiful sight in my eyes compared to the mountains and hills stretching tall above us with eyes of brown and green. At the tips, a blanket of fog protected them from the late winter's bitter winds. You could hear the sound of the air singing all around you as it drummed into your eyes, and though it chilled to the core, it was a sweet sort of feeling that couldn't be passed up.

We stopped a few times, but Holmes never bothered to depart his new 'friend'. He was probably embarrassed with the fact that he was lagging behind and therefore continued on his journey whilst we warmed our hands and our stomachs. Yet, in the end, we always caught up to him and he always sunk back.

The day was ending when we finally came to the border. Lakes, streams, trees and mountains were no longer our companions as the lights of a weapons plant dawned upon us. Heilbronn was waiting to be taken by the clumsiness of an inventor, the hawk eyes of a detective, and the smirking of a doctor, but little did she know it. Perhaps because we were not yet so confident in ourselves.

Sherlock and Watson removed themselves from their horses, gathering their most vital belongings. The departure from my horse nearly broke my already weak heart, but I knew it was for the best. We were tossing ourselves in danger, and he could not be put at risk. As I stared into its black eyes, a farewell caught in my throat. "Goodbye, you beautiful creature." He turned his head the opposite direction, as if understanding my abandonment. "Hopefully our paths will cross again." No one had commented on my farewell, but Simza's eyes were sharp and she shot me a sad smile when I finally tore away from the horse.

John's voice managed to catch my attention shortly afterwards. My fuzzy companion was already forgotten with the remembrance of a more serious issue at head. "We'll slip in through the loading bay, find out what exactly is going on in there, and we get out. Hopefully safe and sound."

Sherlock's brows rose unsteadily. "Getting out might be tricky." His eyes darted towards the gypsies. They had become our entire cause of hope. Without them, we would still be back in Paris.

"We will get you out," Simza replied, as if she knew exactly what we had wanted to hear. Sherlock squeezed her rough hand in appreciation as she continued to sit highly upon her stallion. "If my brother is in there, get him out alive."

Sherlock and John nodded. I nodded as well, though I knew when it came down to it, I would probably not be saving anyone that day. Most of the time I could barely save myself. My companions gave the group a raised fist of certainty, and before I had time to process what was happening, we were heading towards the pathway. "Renadale!" My trek halted unexpectedly as Simza's voice carried over the brim of my hat. Simza was climbing down from her horse, something small clasped in her hand. "Take this," she spoke as something cold pressed against my palm. "It has brought me luck for many years. I can see the fighter in your eyes. She is buried somewhere deep within you. Let her come."

When I cracked open my fingers, as one would a locked treasure chest, the sight waiting me was certainly a gem indeed. A handsomely crafted knife stared up before me, my stomach dropping towards the rocky road beneath my scuffed boots. "This is the first weapon I have ever received," my whisper held shock. "This is far too old and beautiful. I cannot take such a remarkable thing from you."

"You can and you will," she said firmly. She pressed it further into my hand. "I just pray that you will never have to use it." Without any chance for a token of appreciation, Simza walked off and returned to fellow men. The gypsies rode off into the trees, their dark robes blending in with the horrors of the night's forest.

Simza's gift had been a tremendous sacrifice. Not only that, but it was a small sign of hope. Hope for me to be strong, safe, and brave. "I will not let you down," I whispered into the night sky. Though whom I was whispering to, I was unsure.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

_Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk._

The hoard of soldiers passed us without recognition, their tailcoats long and dark like their sleepless eyes. They were as awake as could be, despite the new day approaching. Their buttons were sewn to perfection, and their boots as shiny as a new English rainfall. I held my breath inside of me as the storm passed by, waiting to come out until the thunder of their boots had passed.

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief as standing became acceptable. Our feet and arms were more than sore from the day's ride, but our personal pain was insignificant. That sigh was a signal to continue on, and continue on we would.

Not without a suddenly irrelevant and insignificant conversation, of course.

"Are you happy?"

Sherlock's hushed question took John and I both by surprise. His chocolate eyes were glued upon his doctorly companion, and I took a step back to let the boys have their random discussion. In fact, I couldn't remember talking at all since we had left the gypsies back on the border. My mind was entirely somewhere else, though I could not confess it's placing. Not to Sherlock Holmes anyway.

"What?" There was little toleration in John's reply. Without even so much of a glance towards Holmes, he continued fixing and cleaning the weapons in his jacket.

"At this moment…" Sherlock continued, trying desperately to make eye contact to a non-willing participant. "Are you as happy as you would be on your honeymoon in Brighton?" Sherlock's head fell to the side mockingly. I had to stop myself from scoffing in disapproval. _Of course he's not as happy. He's covered in mud, tired, and sore. He could be by a warm fire with his new wife, but that had to be taken away from him. Well, it didn't _have _to be, but you made it so._

Watson's response was as strict as the one in my head. "I'm not going to grace that question with an answer." At least Sherlock had finally gotten his attention, but the sharp and furious look passing through the doctor's eyes was certainly not the one Sherlock was hoping for. And though John had declined his suggestion, there was a flicker of doubt passing his face.

_Maybe I am wrong; _the thought was quizzical in my head. _Maybe he does love this more. _

Sherlock said nothing. Instead he turned his frown a bit more and raised his brows as if saying 'so be it' without uttering a single word. However, the detective could not move on without an answer, and once again repeated himself. He was insufferable at times, but at least he was persistent. "Are you happy?"

"Aren't we here for another reason? I think we are." All of the patience that John held for his friend was quickly being tested.

"Okay."

"Shall we get on-"

"Simple question."

"Are we going to _do _something? Or wait here for them to come back around?"

Sherlock sighed with annoyance and turned his face away like a child. It was as if I had not been there the entire time. In fact, I think the men might have actually forgotten about me. Granted that was my fault, for I had been so quiet recently.

"What time is it?"

"Three-fifteen…" Watson answered hesitantly with a flick of his pocket watch.

"Over there in the residential part of the complex should be a telegraph office." Sherlock pointed to a brick building up ahead. I had seen it while we were breaking through the gates. There were German signs dangling from it, and thankfully the language was far more recognizable than French. Wanting to feel useful for once that day, I took a step forward.

"I'll go send the telegraph." My whole body had been shaking since we had snuck in, as easy as had been, but I could not help to think of my tarot cards. The future. The sudden catastrophe. Would it happen in this horrible place? Both of the men jumped upon my declaration, only solidifying the thought that I was all but unknown to them.

"Renadale," Sherlock did not try and hide his surprise. "Why yes, of course you would go, wouldn't you?" His hand fell upon my shoulder. "Always a good sport, you are." My shoulders shrugged in response. The faster we settled things, the sooner we left. That was my only motivation for taking on the task. But if I was a good sport like Holmes had said, then the compliment was warmly received. "However, John will be doing this alone and you shall be coming with me. I won't risk your safety." There was no point in arguing. Truthfully, I didn't want to be alone so I made no complaints. Sherlock turned to Watson with a small scrap of parchment. "Send this to Mycroft. Be back here on the hour."

Watson took the paper without a word. With a quick kiss to my cheek and a whisper of 'be safe', he was gone from my sight before I could even thank him. We were utterly alone in the darkness now, the only comfort being one another and our frayed jackets. However, Sherlock shrunk to his knees the second our third musketeer had disappeared, and began to scribble something. I crouched down to his level, inspecting the paper in his hand. "What is this for?"

"Oh, just something for Watson… When I said that he should be back here on the hour, that is because we most likely will not be." Sherlock muttered.

"Why is that?"

His eyes lifted from the parchment for a moment, as if he were about to speak. Instead he said nothing. He just turned up the corner of his lip and watched me for a second. I had seen that look before. He thought I was beautiful, despite my rugged state. In the darkness I blushed and managed to turn my face away without a proper answer.

I watched as he carefully as he continued to sketch the watchtower of the camp, it's dark lines smudging from the charcoal in which he used. Surprisingly, his work was beautifully crafted. I almost complimented him, but he began to write a message that took my attention before I could speak. "Come at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same." He tucked it into the crack of a crate, waiting unobtrusively for Watson's arrival.

"What does that mean?" My voice was small as I spoke. There was fear in each syllable and I received no comfort from the look that was answering me. Sherlock's eyes flickered towards mine for a moment, his frown never wavering. "Can you tell me or should I not bother asking?"

We both followed one another's movements from off the ground. His body was inches away from mine, the coldness not stopping the sweat from oozing out of our palms. Nerves rattled through my stomach and brain, never stopping and never growing weary though my body only wanted rest. "Renadale… We must-" The sound of boots approaching stopped his words quickly. Sherlock's hand tightened around my upper arm and with a hushed whisper he spoke. "_Run_."

Little time to lose with little time to think. That was all I had as we made our way across the road towards a cluster of apartments. A large, sharp gate blocked us from going anywhere and with hesitation I turned to him. "What are we going to do? I can't climb this."

"No," Sherlock muttered heatedly. "You can't, but I can. I will lift you and them haul myself over." I often forgot of the masculinity that was always hiding under those baggy jackets and trousers. Sherlock was as strong as the next man and his fighting skills were incomparable. There was no time to waste and before I knew it, my body was raised in the air, my hands planted atop the sharp gate's spikes. "Can you climb down to the other side?" I heard him ask beneath me.

"I think-" My shouted response was cut short with a minor scream, my body tumbling over the edge. My back hit the ground with a thud, the pain shooting up my entire body like the bite of an Adder. I winced in pain, but in a moment's time, Sherlock's hand was there to help me up.

"Sweet girl, look at you." There was a prolonged sigh hidden somewhere in his whisper. He was sick of my inabilities. He had every right to be; I was sick of them as well. However, that was not how I wanted him to see me. I pulled myself together with a firm lift of my body from the cold floor, and brushed any remnants of gravel away from my dress.

"I'm perfectly well."

Sherlock's brows rose in amusement, but once he saw me crack a smile, that was all of the reassurance he needed. His fingers laced between mine without permission, though he never needed it, and he carried me off in the heat of the moment.

Though we were no longer running, our steps were fast and swift like soundless creatures of the night. We made our way under the rafting of a building, all the while keeping our eyes peeled in the darkness. With my large hair, large eyes and piercing gaze, I might have been mistaken for an oversized owl. "Stop." Sherlock's strict tone kept me in my place. Guards were surrounding us, though their eyes only focused on one another as their rotting teeth grinned. They took no notice of the 'gypsies' invading their factory, and even if they did, I wondered if they cared. "This way."

Sherlock pulled me off to the left and away from the guards at present. We were finally alone as we turned down a back alley, despite the shimmering moonlight guarding our way and the hundreds of bottles lined up beside us. "What are these for?" I asked, squeezing my fingers more tightly around his. His hand in mine was more of a comfort than he knew.

"Poison, bullets, anything they happen to need it for," he muttered darkly. Sherlock Holmes was a fighter, but he did it for justice. The thought of worldwide war was not something he was fond of, though I knew he was fascinated by the mind power of James Moriarty. And with good reason. I had been fascinated once too. Now I was just fascinated with the idea of his entire entity being erased from the Earth's memory. "Come quickly. It's in here."

I hadn't even noticed our halted feet. Perhaps because I did not wish to be where I was standing. A large, metal door stood before us with nothing but a warning sign written upon it. _Poison _was the only word I could recognize; a universal word for destruction. "We're going in _there_?"

"We have no other choice."

"Of course we have a choice!" My hand fell away from his with a scoff. "This is going to end us, Sherlock Holmes. If they catch us, this is the _end_." Drama was perhaps something I had always been good at. And yet, the hanged man. His strange grin. His tied feet. They were trapping me in a silent chokehold and I could not escape.

Sherlock's eyes met mine with seriousness. "If it ends us, it might just save the rest of the world." He was absolutely right. I could not argue with him or else I would look more monstrous and selfish than the man behind the blueprints. Suddenly, I felt selfish and greedy. My skin crawled with disappointment. My own life was nothing compared to the lives of others, and my foolishness had at once been summoned. "Shall we crack on?" He asked with a hushed breath. I could only manage to nod my head.

The door splintered open easily. It made sense: no one besides us would bother breaking into a poison cellar. And though we crept inside without a word and without notice, the feeling of eyes on my back was unmistakable. "Something isn't right." My confession echoed in the dark chamber once the door was locked. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"I've had a bad feeling about life since I was born," Sherlock muttered. "That's why I'm so quick to try and fix it."

We both walked carefully and slowly in the factory. Pipes of all sorts of shapes and sizes greeted us with whistles, bubbles and puffs of steam. It smells like the city, though we were far away from London. None of it made sense. The only thing that it echoed was warfare.

Sherlock was unscrewing the lid of a titanium bottle when he pulled out the contents. A smooth, golden liquid swished across the bottle as he turned it over in his hands. "Poison of every kind lays within these chambers. You name it and they have it here. You want it and they will supply it for you."

"You can tell what it is just by looking at it?"

"You forget who I am, Renadale Adkins." He tossed a smirk over his shoulder before putting the weapon back in its safe.

Though it was not the appropriate time, I cracked a smile at Sherlock's comment. "I would never forget you."

Sherlock stopped walking for a moment, turning to me with a worried expression. Something negative was going to fall from his lips, and before I had the chance to stop him with a much longed for kiss, he started to ramble as expected. "You've been rather quiet lately. Have I done anything to upset you? I'm terribly sorry if I have. You don't know how much it pains me to know that I have any cause in your discomfort, or rather, _have _or _will _give you any pain-"

"Sherlock, there isn't-"

"I'm just concerned for you is all, because I know that things have been stressful…"

"Honestly, I'm quite alright-"

"… and I just haven't been able to show you my affection as well as I would like to."

"We're in the middle of an upcoming war," I said firmly. "I don't expect you to run off and show me your regards when an entire world is depending on us. You, me, John and Simza. That's all there is left. That is all that stands between humanity and destruction. The four of us against James Moriarty." Sherlock's lips closed as my booming voice took over the room. "Please don't apologize for anything that cannot be."

Sherlock's face twitched in displeasure. "Cannot be?"

_Not only can I not solve crimes, but I also can't be romantic. What am I good at, anyway? _"I didn't mean it like that." My voice instantly shrunk in power. "I'm sorry." The hesitancy was returning to my bones and I flinched backwards in regret. "I just don't want you to be worrying about me when I'm doing okay."

Sherlock took a dominant step forward, this time unafraid to meet my eyes. His hand shot out towards my cheek, cupping it lovingly against his fingers. Something about the feeling of his skin against mine sent my body into a whirlwind of feelings, both physically and mentally. "I don't want to worry about you, because I feel the need protect you. And I don't. Having you here with me is…" Now came the struggle. "It's what I need."

My lips opened. I wanted to say those three words so badly. I wanted to tell them to him so many times that his ears actually grew weary from hearing it. I wanted to scream it to him, whisper it in his ear, and slip it to him on a piece of paper at dinner parties. I wanted to love him in every way possible and for every second that my heart beat.

And yet, I could not bring myself to utter the words again.

"Thank you," I said, turning my face. My lips pressed themselves against his palm. They did not leave after a minute, but stayed planted until he understood what I was trying to pass on. _I love you. _Yet, without any words attached.

"You have absolutely no reason to thank me."

"I have every reason on the face of the Earth."

Sherlock seemed intrigued with this. Even though I thought it impossible, Sherlock closed the gap between us even more. "Will you tell me of these reasons one day?" I didn't think he was asking because he wanted to get complimented. Sherlock Holmes believed himself to be a nuisance to even his closest friend. Many people did not care to have him in their lives, nor did they thank him on a regular basis. However, I would. I would show him how glad I was that he was there, and hopefully he would always feel the same.

"I will show you every day for as long as you live." My hands were pouring out sweat, though my face tried to keep its composure. "That is, if you asked me to."

Sherlock's composure faltered a bit, his eyes weary and nervous. "… I am asking you to."

There was no more time to speak. We said our affections through a few more moments of staring, and then we had to continue on. If we wasted any more time, our heads would pay the price.

And as I moved past him, none of that seemed to matter. He spun me around with a force that I did not recognize, his lips meeting mine with unexpected urgency. There wasn't a second where I did not know it was what I wanted, and without any hesitation, I kissed him back. His hands trailed over my neck seductively, and I could feel my cold body shivering beneath my dress. This kiss was not like the others. It was urgent, as if he truly did _need_ it, as if it were the last. The kisses continued on and on, our bodies pressed firmly against one another. His fingers moved into my hair, playing with the soft curls that I knew he loved so dearly. I could feel my lips parting, wanting his tongue to meet my own. Wanting him to feel me everywhere, wanting his hands to touch me. Seconds ago I had been aiming for the survival of humanity. Now all I wanted was Sherlock Holmes.

He did not waste a moment when my mouth opened, and passionately I felt his kisses become deeper. A little moan could not help but fall from my lips, which somehow frustrated him all the more. His hands fell down to my hips, pressing me closer towards his warm body. I felt myself leaning backwards as he urged himself against me, both of us nearly tumbling onto the floor in a heated passion. Thoughts were running through my head. _Why is this happening now? Does he know something I do not? Are we to be captured? _It only made sense. Why else would he leave that note for Watson?

And yet, I did not care. I let myself drown in the beauty that was Holmes, and as our tongues and lips met, there was nothing so sweet in the world. He let loose a groan of desire, his heartbeat pumping through the opened hole of his jacket. I pressed my cold fingers to his warm chest, wishing that nothing stood between us except skin. The thought seemed monstrous and for a second, I grew ashamed. My lips parted his with a gasp as heat rushed onto my face. He only stared at me with wide eyes, his breath struggling to slow down along with his racing thoughts. He was about to speak, but I lifted a hand to silence him. He knew none of the thoughts I dreamt of, nor of the passions I desired. Even the idea scared myself, and I felt filthy as I thought of the phrase.

Making love.

Making love to Sherlock Holmes.

The expression made my stomach churn, and swiftly my hand flew over my mouth. Ashamed, I pulled away from him while heat flooded every part of my body. I felt him come up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. His body was invisible to me, but I could feel him breathing on my neck with lust in every exhale. For a moment, I dreamt that he might want me too. And yet the idea was far too insane. I was Renadale Adkins. I could not even brush my hair properly.

"We can speak later," he whispered into my ear, his wet lips dampening my skin. His hot breath made my head spin as a shiver went rushing from my chest to the private spot between my legs. I whimpered again with the fear of the feeling and silently tugged myself away from him. He must have known what I was going through. When I finally gazed upon him, his eyes were downcast as well. He had to have understood, and the shame was enough to stop my breathing. A long silence filled the room before his voice graced me. "I won't touch you. We'll continue on."

I nodded quietly. His touches were what I longed for, but I knew that my selfishness was a hindrance to everything we had worked for. I kept my mouth shut until the strange feelings drifted away from me. Maybe my passions for Sherlock were like the poison in the tubes. Once you had them in your system, you would never be free.

As if it had not happened, Sherlock led us over to another large door, the only opening being a window of minimal size. It was just big enough for both of our eyes to creep over its ledge, the sight laying before us seemingly nothing of much importance. "There's a map on the wall. There are maps _everywhere._" Me pointing out the obvious was not just without reason. "All leading to…"

"Here," Sherlock muttered. His fingers brushed against mine without thought. However, I noticed, though my hand kept its place. "As well as small weapon pieces fixated upon specific cities."

"Cities he's going to bomb?"

"Most likely," Sherlock sighed. "There are weapon supply designs in the back left corner." I followed his eyesight. Sure enough, huge guns with many detailed parts were drawn out intricately on the parchment. Detailed guns, waiting to destroy the details of lives. "This is far more elaborate than expected."

"Is it?" I whispered fearfully. "Have we dug our own graves?" The question took Sherlock by surprise, but I was even more afraid when he did not properly answer.

"Come with me." He took my hand in his once again, completely breaking his oath of no touching. Where we were headed next could not prepare me for the boiling horror that was growing in my heart. This place was a tomb, but all of the coffins were empty. And we were just the right size.

The next door was small, but far less friendly with its rotten black wood. Sherlock kicked it aimlessly with his boot, but not before untucking the gun from his pocket. "Why do you need that?" My fingers held him back from entering the door. All he could do was look at me. There were no words that needed to be said. Danger was enveloping us inside and stamping down a wax snare.

We snuck our way over to a small ledge. Though the rest of the rooms had been traumatizing enough, the sight of that room took my breath away completely. Not in the way the mountains had. Hundreds and hundreds of bombs were lined up side by side like the soldiers that would use them. Flashes of the bombings flooded my head, tormenting me until a powerful ache washed over my body. Sherlock watched as my hands grabbed my skull, my teeth gritting like a cheese against a grater. He touched my arm carefully, trying his best to soothe. My eyes were glued shut. This was too much for even me. Destruction would soon be on us all, and seeing the amount of bombs made me realize there was nothing we could do to stop it. Not even Sherlock Holmes.

Before I could stop my head found pounding, four clicks drug me from my own misery. When my eyes finally flickered open, an unfriendly sight shone before us.

Light.

_Lights?! _They had turned on the lights! Our entire cover was blown, and the same feeling of eyes on my back washed over me. "Renadale, _hide_." Before I had time to argue, his rough hands shoved me behind a nearby crate, his legs kicking me into a curled ball. "_Don't make a sound." _

Tears began to flood the brim of my eyes, but I bit them back the best that I could. It was only when the voice came flooding over us that I was too frozen with fear to even weep.

"That's what you get, Mister Holmes, when industry marries arms."

Sherlock ducked in case someone was watching him from the other side. However, I saw the man before he did. Sebastian Moran. As ugly as a man could come on the inside, with the outside of a washed up soldier. He was worth nothing and the fact that he was trying to make something of himself was even more pitiful. He was worth nothing but the mud splattered across his shoes. Moriarty was worth nothing but the crumbled ash stuck in the crevices of his pipe. They were the most disgraceful human beings I would ever lay my eyes on. However, at that moment, my eyes flickered towards Sherlock's loaded gun, and for a moment I prayed that he would notice Sebastian more quickly with a bullet as a greeting.

"Now, put your gun down."

_Damn it all._

Sebastian's face was hidden from me. I kept my cover as best as I could, though the chattering of my teeth probably could have been heard from miles away. Hopefully John would hear it and came save us. And yet, part of me should have expected this. Part of me felt as if this were all part of Sherlock's plan. "It's a bit old fashioned," Sebastian continued. Sherlock finally met his match. I could not see what was happening, but the sound of a gun sliding across the concrete floor did not help my hope. In fact, it shot away at it until it was nothing but a tattered cloth of despair. "What you need is one of these. Go on. Pick one."

Sherlock was standing now. I could see that much. He was like a puppet being ordered by the puppeteer, and with sadness I watched him snatch something up from the crate behind him. It was thin and black, with a sharp end like a rattlesnake's tail. Certainly it stung just as much.

"Machine pistol," Sebastian said proudly, though there was nothing to be proud of. "Self-repeating. Takes 7.63 caliber rounds in one of these." Something was sent flying through the air. Sherlock caught it with ease, almost seeming interested in the weaponry. Surely, it was the finest around, but that wasn't really the point of us being there. "A ten shot box magazine."

Each man clicked their guns together, one right after the other. My hands flew to my mouth to stop from screaming. My scar meant little to me. I had taken a bullet for him once. There was no doubt in my mind that I would do it again. The world could afford to lose Renadale Adkins.

It could not survive without Sherlock Holmes.

"Easy enough to load," my partner said with a fierce stare. "I'd imagine one would have to retract the bolt to engage the first round." He began walking forward, fiddling with the gun in his hands. Right away, it was a bad idea. And he paid for it with Sebastian's gun being aimed straight between his eyes. My hands suctioned themselves to my face as the screams bubbled up inside of me.

"Easier done than said," Sebastian tricked. Four more feet could be heard. I could see the men before Sherlock, the twins being utterly unmistakable. They were young, foreign and practically bowing at Moran's feet. The amount of sick-minded people in the world continued to impress me, and I knew I would meet many, _many_ more.

If we managed to survive this round.

Check and…

Maybe not just yet.

It was not until a gagging noise was let loose that I genuinely began to fear. Tears came flooding over the dam, pooling down my face like an uprising river. Sobs were muffled behind my fingers, and though I tried to stop them, the emotions were too uncontrollable. I could hear Sherlock tumbling to the ground, having no choice but to make him bear the pain and misery. There was silence after a moment, but it did not last for long. He was unprotected. My body shrunk away in shame, hiding myself from the men as much as possible.

That did not last for long.

"Take him to the surgery." Sebastian's voice was devoid of all remorse. "I'll find the doctor." I had no idea where the surgery was located, but I was determined follow them there. Even if I got caught, so help me God, I would try and save the man I loved. I would tell him to his face when his eyes cracked open and I would never let him leave my side again. "Oh, but you only need _one_ to carry him," Sebastian continued. I thought he had left, but instead his voice carried louder and more strongly across the room. "As for the other one… Get the girl. She's hiding behind the crate."

There wasn't a second to think. My mouth opened to scream. Rough hands pulled me up from the floor, the stench of wine and gunpowder lingering in their sleeves. My fists went for their faces, but they were too fast. I managed to let out a cry for a split second, images of my mother flashing before me, before a tattered white rag covered up my vision, filled my nostrils with a sour stench and all together cast me into hell.

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**Hello, my darlings. It's so lovely to see you all here. It really is a funny thing, this story. I know it can seem rather depressing, and trust me when I say it is, I won't lie to you about that, but it does have it's pleasurable moments. Though, I can never often find where they are… They might last for a mere minute before getting trampled on.**

**Somehow, I feel like I'm not helping. But, surely you must like our adventures? Or you wouldn't be reading it? **

**If you do enjoy the stories, please leave a little note in the box. We don't care if it's a single word. Just a quick 'hello' will suffice. The last review was quite pitiful, so hopefully things will be looking up.**

**You're all very lovely creatures, and I wish you all good health.**

**Your most loyal friend,**

**Dr. John Watson. **


	17. Divergence

**Woah-ho! Thanks for the beautiful reviews, once again. I couldn't write this story without fans, so keep commenting and telling me what you do and do not like. My author challenges seem to be failing, so we'll quit those and just get straight to business. :P**

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**~Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

Existence. Nonexistence. The two words signify two very different things. Opposites, some might even say, but no matter how you look at it you cannot have one without the other. You cannot live without dying and you cannot die without first having to live.

When we live, we create, we grow and we think. We do all of these things to make life function in a particular way; the exact way that we feel it should be. We comb out hair every morning so that it may be neat and tidy for a couple of hours. We dress ourselves so that people can think of us as a certain kind of person. And yet, how can things be a certain way if life is always moving? If life is in constant motion, how could we ever just be one person?

To some we are nothing. To others we are potential. To a small few, we are as bright as the stars. And to perhaps a couple, but often only one, we are their sanctuary. We cannot have full existence without them.

That was how I felt about Sherlock Holmes. He was my existence. He was my sanctuary and salvation. Without him, my life _would_ function. I would go on with my routines of hair brushing and dressing myself. But, I would not exist like I did when he was beside me_. _He had become so attached to my heart that pulling him off was like asking someone to never smile at their newborn child.

It was new to me, this love, and it was great. He would always be my great love.

And I was so close to losing him.

When the drowsiness finally began to wear away, and my senses started trickling back to their rightful places, my memory recalled the past events. Sebastian Moran and the twins had kidnapped us. I could still feel their tight fingers on my arm, bruises no doubt forming that very second beneath my dress. Sherlock's drawing came trickling into my mind when my memory began to turn its gears. We were most likely near or inside of the watchtower, but without my hearing and full mentality in tact, it was not for certain.

My sense of touch came back at me like a blizzard as the cold air rushed into my lungs. In the dark, my body was shivering violently. My brain was pounding as loud as my heartbeat and for a moment I felt as though the organs had switched places. My body had been thrown carelessly into a secluded corner as if I were worth nothing more than the dirt on my boots. I could see a light coming from my left, but my head was too weak to turn.

Amidst my shaking and the nauseous feeling rising up in my stomach, noises began to introduce themselves to my ears. Something scratchy and particularly unpleasant continued on without stopping. Part of the voice sounded familiar, but there was an amusement lingering behind the blurred words that stuck me as odd.

"… so he muddies the water …"

My jaw's tightness was suddenly dawned on me, and the tight pain sent a tremor through my skull. An audible groan escaped my gagged mouth. This must have taken the rest of the room by surprise. All grew still. My eyes finally scanned upwards, the devilish grin of James Moriarty now being aimed unerringly in my direction.

"So," he continued through his gapped teeth. "He _confuses_ the fish." If I had had the strength, there is no doubt that I would have run to him with my tied hands, slung them over his neck and choked him with the very chains he had ordered upon me. The irony of it all seemed sweet inside my head. However, that kind of energy did not exist within me. I had no strength at all, and Moriarty could see that. He smiled down at me with another gaping smile. "It doesn't realize until too late that it has swum into a trap."

A scoff flittered through the unlit room, seemingly out of place for such a grim sequence. My eyes darted towards the direction from whence it came. Sure enough, a red vest came favorably into my sight like a harbor in _The Tempest_; the vest belonging to Sherlock Holmes. At the sight of him relaxing in a chair, my weakened state was all but forgotten. I could feel my torso raising itself up from the wall, my heart doing all of the work and not my brain. "Mmhrrrm!" My inaccessible mouth tried to utter his name, but it was no use. My teeth and lips were entirely unusable with the sweaty rag still gagging me into silence. Sherlock did manage to catch my eye, so at least my attempt had not completely failed.

Something was not right when he finally glanced upon my face. He was _smiling. What is there to smile about?_ I questioned inwardly. _Is the joke on me?_ Dread seemed like the only excuse for my foolish ideas, but everyone did seem rather calm compared to myself.

That was not for long.

The noise of a butcher cutting into a fresh slab of meat hit my ears quickly. The sharp sound of metal digging into muscle only lasted for a moment, but this time it was not where it was meant to be. This was not a butcher and a boar. This time, Sherlock Holmes was the target and the knife was now a hook. I watched in horror as one of the twins made his way behind Sherlock with the gruesome weapon, digging it into his right shoulder with a controlling desire. A muffled scream escaped my throat as hot tears suddenly boiled to the cliffs of my eyes.

Sherlock was lifted through the air without a choice. The rest of his body pulled the weight down from his shoulder, his skin all but tearing in half. I could feel myself sobbing, the tears pouring from my face and down my neck, but there was nothing I could do about it. That was the worst part. His screams were filling my ears and head like wildfire, so much that I could not even comprehend his from my own.

_Let him go! _I wanted to shout._ Take me instead, I'll do anything! _It was useless. I was banned from any form of speech. Sebastian Moran had made sure of that.

Things grew very quiet for a moment. Sherlock was grunting in pain, his hands reaching for the hook in order to lessen the weight that dragging him down. Though it was the last thing I wanted, I could not help to imagine his skin being torn away from him. The blood was rushing out of him beneath his clothes like a wounded hero. And yet, this moment had no glory. There were only battle scars and no battles won.

My feet were not tied and therefore I could run to him, but then what? That would result in no help at all. All I could do was wait. Wait and weep for him.

As Sherlock's struggling body hung limply in the air, like the fish Moriarty had so _beautifully_ metaphored, the sound of electricity came whirring into the room.

He was playing music.

_Music! _

I wanted to strangle the man in front of everyone. I wanted to toss him off of the bridge and into the river Thames. I wanted to leave him to the gypsies and let them have their way with him. Who cared if his men would kill me afterwards? As long as he was gone, the world was safe. I could feel the tears drying and turning into glimmers of hate. My shaky legs were robotically lifting themselves off the ground, despite the weakness that ransacked my body. There was only one cure to my weakness. The death of James Moriarty.

"R-Rena!" Sherlock's choked voice yelled at me from above. It caught my attention enough for my plan to be swept away by tenderness. Sherlock gave a quick shake of his head. He knew what I wanted to do and was advising me, as much as he could, not to go through with it.

Schubert's _Die Forelle _began to play, a song I had recognized from Edward's piano. He had played it so beautifully a few months back, and now the song was being used for Sherlock's torture. I knew that Edward had been quietly jealous of our relationship, but the grim coincidence reminded me that he was never an evil boy. Far from it. He would never act as if Sherlock were some sort of trawl that he could blindly destroy through a twisted allegory. The idea haunted me to the point where I could no longer stand and my body returned to the hardened ground. The song had all but encouraged me to give up.

Moriarty began to sing into his much beloved mirror, his voice highly unimpressive for a man who has been to so many operas. I winced back in disgust, not just from the cracking of his voice, but also from the insanity that was radiating off of him. Somehow I was fearful of it being infectious, he was just so perfect for the adjective. He could sit there and watch a man dangle for his safety whilst singing as if nothing were the matter. An impressively criminal feat.

Nothing was the matter for him. Everything was according to plan.

With a greedy smile, I could see an idea breaking out onto the Professor's face before he even managed to perform it. The torture had only just begun. Moriarty spun around towards Holmes, his hands pushing him firmly across the room like a swing. Sherlock struggled not to scream as he clung desperately to the hook. Moriarty only smiled at him, as if he were a toddler in the schoolyard. When Sherlock managed to bite him tongue from an oncoming scream, Moriarty grew highly unsatisfied. My screams were worthless as Sherlock's leg was taken and spun around, the hook twisting deeper and deeper into his skin. The pleasure glowing from Moriarty's eyes was what feared me most.

Sobs racked my body and I did not care who saw them. I did not care about all of those times that I promised myself not to cry, because Holmes was my forever, and it seemed that my forever was going to be very short-lived.

The idea of Watson came into my mind at one point. The thought did not stay long, merely because he was not there yet. A telegram surely did not take too long to send. So, where was he? Losing both of them would be the end of my sanity. Without the duo, there would be no more Renadale Adkins. Only a shadow of once was. The dependency I had for those men is not to be seen a frightening thing, but a thing of honor. They were my truest and loyal friends; the only ones I had.

Sherlock kept screaming. The sound of his cries was echoing in the distance so that the whole encampment could hear the audible power Moriarty held. He had put a speaker up towards the phonograph, capturing not only the lovely German tenor, but also the frantic cries of his 'fish'.

I couldn't watch it any longer. Hot tears were dancing across my dirty skin as the silent screams got stuck in my throat. All I could do was shut my eyes and hear his pain. Feel his pain. If I could have said anything to him at that moment, it would have been those words. Those _three, _simplewords. But, it was too late. Everything was over. Everything was lost.

The song had finished. The rope tumbled to the ground in a hoop, like hair being cut. Holmes's weak body plummeted to the floor along with it, all of the screams ceaselessly knocked out of him. My tears were not silent yet, but no one in the room seemed to care. I was as insignificant as the bricks that built the watchtower.

Taking the opportunity of the villain's unfixed eyes, strength flew to my bones and lifted my body up from the floor. I rushed towards him in a flurry, the other men in the room curious as to what my next move was. As my knees buckled beneath me and I shrunk to his level, an unexpected smile looked up at me. It was laced with pain and swallowed agony. Sherlock struggled to reach over with his free hand, but he managed to pull together some energy and untie the knot keeping my mouth sealed. Salty air swam towards my lungs with a sigh of liberation. Moriarty did not bother to stop his movements, which only surprised me even more. "You're so stupid." I had to repeat myself as the words got choked up within my throat.

Sherlock's smile fell from his face as his hand reached up. His fingers held my face before he let out a wince in pain and dropped it. His eyes flickered shut while his teeth grinded together unpleasantly in his mouth. The agony he was going through was unimaginable, but part of me felt like this would be over soon. Every nightmare has their ending, even the ones that seem to follow you through the daytime.

"Move." Moriarty's command was directed towards me. Though I was actually going to listen to him, he kicked me out of the way before I had the chance. I fell to the ground with my hands still tied, the familiar aggression coming back into my veins. Moriarty's towering body was far more stable than the man shaking beneath him. His deep-orange brows lifted amusedly as his trout wriggled for air. "Let's try this again, shall we?" Moriarty repeated the question without any lightness in his heart. "To _whom _did you send the telegram?"

"To my…" Sherlock tried to get the words from his lips, but could not manage the next word. Seeing him that weak made my stomach churn. When I felt like I was about to gag, the noise growing in my throat, the twin's finally glanced my way. One looked disgusted with my obviously un-ladylike appearance and the other only snickered. My health and appearance was entirely insignificant.

Moriarty, displeased with not receiving a better answer, leaned down to Sherlock's level. One hand shoved the hook deeper into Sherlock's shoulder. Sore from screaming, Sherlock's throat only managed to let loose a faded groan. The other hand pinned down his wrist, making sure that he could not manage to run away.

The idea seemed ridiculous. Sherlock Holmes managing to escape the hell we were in? That just proved how frightened Moriarty really was. He knew of the power and genius his captive possessed.

After all, they were one in the same.

With different morals, naturally.

"To my brother… Mycroft." Sherlock managed a gasping whisper into Moriarty's ear.

"I've just got one more question for you." Moriarty spoke as he retook his power position over Sherlock. "Which one of us is the fisherman…"

_Rumblerumblerumblerumble. _The sound took me by surprise. I looked up. No one else saw it coming, but with my hands tied there was nowhere I could go.

"…and which the trout?"

_Reeeeeeekkk._

All of our heads looked up towards the skylight, the unmistakable sound of something falling creaking into our ears. I could see the tower coming down on us like rainfall, but that wasn't what mattered to me. What I truly wanted to watch was the fall of Moriarty's face. And sure enough, it was exactly what I had yearned for. Fear splintered his bones as he stood utterly still. I could have stayed watching him like that forever, but a rough hand pulled me into their chest and rolled us both away from the main impact of the crash.

Glass, tiles, bricks, and other pieces of material shattered down upon us like the awakening of a bittersweet dream. Though I could feel my arm dripping blood as glass cut it's way through the dress, I felt entirely safe. Sherlock's warm body was enveloping me inside, the scent of blood unmistakable as my head pressed into his wounded shoulder. When I pulled my hand back and touched my face, the warm liquid was leaving its mark against my forehead. I stared at the blood on my hand; it's fluidity burrowing into the crevices of my fingertips. Smoke whirled around us until I could no longer see the blood, and I soon found myself inside Sherlock's chest.

"Renadale…" A quiet voice whispered. Sherlock's eyes were shut in unimaginable pain, though I could not pinpoint f it were emotional or physical. His lips pursed together as each word stung. "I'm… I'm so sorry."

Shock pulled me away from him. My hands eagerly began to fling bricks from his body. When the moonlight finally flickered onto his face, I held it firmly in his hands. He groaned in displeasure at my blunt actions, but I continued to keep him close. "You will never apologize to me again, do you understand that?"

"Yes, alright. I'm sorry for apologizing."

"_Sherlock_." He had already broken his promise.

"Holmes? Adkins?"

Watson's whisper was unmistakable. Holmes couldn't manage to lift his head upwards. However, I suddenly had energy now that we were (mostly) free from harm and sat up a bit straighter to find our companion.

"Holmes?" Watson called out from a few feet away. I raised my hand and signaled him over.

"Take your time…" Holmes muttered into my knee. "Take your time…"

Watson did not take his time. He sprinted over to us the second he saw the injuries. With a swift movement and no opportunity for arguments, Watson pulled the hook straight from Sherlock's skin. It slid out after a few seconds, the deep mark buried much deeper than I had realized. Holmes groaned from either relief or pain. His head fall back onto my lap as my shaking fingers stroked through his hair. "Always good to see you, Watson," he spoke through a sigh.

"I'm so glad you're safe," I whispered to John. He nodded, never once taking his eyes off Sherlock. My eyes flickered to the wounded hero as well. "And as for you, you had better tell me that you're well enough to get on your feet."

"I'm alright," Sherlock smiled cheekily. "Never felt better, in actuality."

"Can you walk?" John's voice was far more serious.

Sherlock lifted his brows. His eyes danced from John, to me, and then back again. The answer was taking far longer than we expected, but we watched as Sherlock struggled to find the words. "I think… It might be best if we… Well, if I only had… No. No, I cannot walk alone."

John gave him a curt nod. "That's what I expected. You'll have us to lean onto. Simza and the others will be waiting, but we have to leave here before anyone comes for us." His eyes darted around. I knew who he was looking for. Moriarty. The thought was haunting to me as well. "We have to leave here _now_."

As we hauled Sherlock up, slowly but surely fast enough to get us away in time, I couldn't help but remember my previous thought.

_I was as insignificant as the bricks that built the watchtower._

As we headed away from the scene and my eyes landed upon the scattered blocks that buried our three enemies, I couldn't help but smile. Perhaps I wasn't so useless after all.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Luckily, the rest of the factory was as silent as the grave. I hoped this was the literal truth when it came to James Moriarty. We made our way unnoticed down a flight of metal stairs, our feet clanking loudly with the sound of urgency. I urged the boys to be gentle with their stomping, but it made no difference.

"What were you _thinking_?" John's arms were growing weary from hoisting Sherlock and it showed through the gruff question. His voice echoed a lifelong smoker as his accent seemed implacable and certainly not like the friend I knew. His tight face, suddenly expressing irritation, also seemed unrecognizable.

"Wait!" Sherlock grunted in response, pulling himself away. His bloodied hands tore a blanket from a nearby crate, displaying a wide array of weapons. None of them looked familiar to me and I kept my distance. It didn't take long for the men to stuff some down their pockets, however. "If you must know, I was thinking I had him right where I wanted him."

Sherlock cocked a gun and secured it in his bloodstained jacket. It made me nervous to think of such dangerous things being so near his body, not to mention loaded to the brim. His arm stretched out towards me with another wince, a shiny new gun waiting for the warmth of my hands. "I can't," I said quietly. Sherlock hadn't heard me. He pressed the gun closer towards my palms, but I was too fast. I backed away in hesitation. "I… I can't take it."

"Have you lost your hands or is there something I'm missing?"

"I'm so tired of all of this injury. I hate having to watch you be in pain. I hate seeing you feel this way. More than anything, I just want it to end."

"Then take the gun." He offered a light smile. "Use it to protect me from any more wounds." The idea was intriguing, but I was not so quick to follow its call. "Look at it this way; if you have it in your hands that is one less of Moriarty's robots that does."

"Right!" John nodded in agreement. "Crack on then!" John stole the wondrous line from Holmes. There was something far greater than my handgun concealed beneath his arm; a huge gun accessorized his side with golden metal as glowing as his wife's hair. I stared at it in disbelief as he rushed towards the exit, not a moment's hesitation in his steps.

Sherlock only looked at me with a shrug. _One less gun in Moriarty's hands._

"Simza will be waiting for us," Sherlock said as we caught up with John. "Her and the others." We were running to God knows where, but we were making sure that we were quick about it. Smoke tried so terribly hard to keep herself in our midst. We were too fast and she parted her way for us as we trudged closer to the outdoors.

The thought of Simza waiting was a comforting one. She and her friends would help get us to our next destination as well as give us better odds. I didn't like the thought of fighting, but the more people there were, the more protection there was. And that was never a bad thing to have.

Sure enough, when we finally pulled open the door, a high-pitched whistle greeted us. Simza flagged us down from a room possessing even _bigger_ guns as her typical orange skirt failed to blend with the grey surroundings. _Well, what's the point of blending in anyway? _I asked myself. _Our cover is entirely blown. _

"Renadale, go with Simza." Sherlock ordered, shoving me along forwardly. I opened my mouth to complain; there was no way he was getting rid of me so easily. "John and I will be together," he reassured. "We'll be safe, but we can't protect you as well. She, on the other hand, can do a very nice job of getting rid of people that need… Well, gotten rid of."

His eyes were sparkling the way they used to. Adventure was calling out to him and he was taking it with his bloodied hands wide open. Somehow it made me love him even more. It was a look that I never wanted to go away. I managed a quick smile before it faded along with my determination. And before I knew it, my back was turned to him and I was locking arms with my gypsy friend.

"So lovely to see you again, Simza."

She winked playfully. "Let's hope you can say that in the future." A laugh trickled up from her throat.

I didn't find it funny.

We were suddenly rushing behind loading carts, and though I felt safe, none of that mattered once the sound of bullets whizzed through the air. They danced up above me like butterflies, though lacking the same grace and beauty that the creatures shared. My ears were ringing like a bell had been smashed right beside them, and weakly I covered my head in pain. "I know it hurts!" Simza screamed over the noise. "But, you have to keep going! They're going to be fine if we just keep going!" She was right. I would risk everything if I did not move fast enough. With a nod of my head, I followed her quick footsteps.

But the pain wasn't going away. Bullet after bullet was targeted in our direction with ruthless revenge. Dizziness was twisting around my head, wrapping me into a sea of blackness. My cut arm began to grow stiff as well. I felt as if I were going to crash to the ground, but never actually land. In the blink of an eye, something inside of me was giving up, like none of it seemed to matter after all. Part of me believed that humans were not forever, so what did it matter if I lived or died?

Because of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and Simza and my mother and even Irene Adler. That's why I was there. That's why I was still fighting.

My eyes cracked open as a gasp fell from my cracked lips. I could feel blood dripping down them as the skin broke. When I finally realized my surroundings, I felt Simza's hands holding my face tightly. She wiped the trail of blood off with her bare hands. "Are you okay?" She whispered beneath the _whoosh-_ing of bullets.

"I will be once we get out of here."

Whilst my head was ringing, I hadn't noticed Sherlock and John catching up to our side. The other gypsies were not far behind, and as we all ran out into the daylight and away from the warmth of the boiling poisons, Simza had only one thing on her mind. "Did you see my brother?" The pounding of our feet against gravel nearly covered her shrill voice.

"No," Sherlock said firmly. "But I'm certain he's been here." Sherlock Holmes was with me the entire time and somehow he managed to pick that up without me even realizing it. I wasn't surprised.

"Where are we going?" John asked. Family reunions were not of interest to him. Not as much as his own life, anyway.

"Over that wall!" Simza shouted.

John limped weakly behind us, the anger never once leaving his tone. "Holmes, how did you know I would find you?"

"_Find _me? You collapsed a building on me!"

My voice squeaked with its heatedly high pitch, both of their taunting bickers suddenly irritating to my buzzing ears. "Would both of you just stop acting like children for once in your lives?"

_Shoop._

Someone fell behind us. He was one of our men, but now his mind had been handed over to a rounded piece of metal. He had been shot by one of the twins, but he had managed to snag one of their lives before his own. He died honorably, but we could not go back for him. My heart shattered upon this realization. I did not even know his name. I watched as the dead twin's brother shoved him away briskly, not caring as much for his other half compared to his prey.

"Wait…" I whispered. _Why would he be so unloving to his blood? _Twins had always been known for their bond. Even if the two didn't get along, if something happened to the other, common gossip said that it would not go unnoticed by the sibling. There was a connection between them, but these ones were obviously an exception. Unless…

Sherlock and John were both firing shots at them like lunatics before I could get a glance of the twins' faces. I glared angrily at them, displeased that I was actually getting somewhere for once and they ruined my single chance. "Let's go!" Sherlock shouted, tugging my sleeve to join the rest of the party. The confused look crossing his face was undeniable. He had noticed the unloving response with the twins as well.

None of us spoke once we reached the edge of the woods. We could have been dashing through the trees by then, if it had not been for the red brick wall blocking our escape. More shots were fired as we attempted to haul ourselves over the edge, which obviously made us rethink our options.

Bullet after bullet after bullet. That was the only thing that was being handed to us at that moment. No help. No guidance. Just metal. Simza, John, Sherlock and I ducked behind another transportation crate. As the ammunition danced above our heads with wood sprinkling onto our already-dirty clothes, Sherlock pulled me close. Once again, the stench of blood swam towards my nose. Only this time, I couldn't tell if it was his or my own. The cut on my arm was still bleeding as each raise of my limb caused the wound to reopen itself.

For a moment the bullets stopped. Sherlock turned around in confusion, staring up at the hundreds of little holes forever embedded into the wood of the box. "They've stopped," he muttered. I could hear what he said, but if he had said anymore it would have been lost.

A bang erupted before us as a cannon bullet sent the wall down completely. Furious shouts in a language I did not understand rang out behind us. I presumed I did not want to know the things they were saying. The German gunman had missed, but no doubt granted us a form of escape. I could have kissed the villain!

John and Sherlock helped me up from the rocky ground. I could see into the forest through the broken wall. Simza kicked her feet behind her in a sprint so fast that she was gone from my sight in seconds. Her black hair turned into a raven amongst the trees, her orange skirt matching the rising sun.

It was hard keeping up as the smoke and morning fog ate away at my lungs, not to mention the aches and sores that were splintering every bone. Whenever I needed encouragement after a trip or stumble, I turned to Sherlock. He was running faster than I had ever seen him. One hand was clasped desperately to his wound. I could relate to the pain. After all, I had been shot in the shoulder once before. However, I grew unconscious after the affair while Sherlock merely trekked onwards. The fear planted on his face was enough to turn my admiration into concern, but it did not alter. We would be safe. _All_ of us would be safe.

"Where are the horses?" Watson screamed as we gamboled around the trees.

Simza briefly turned her head, but kept her pace up. "They're behind!"

"We _need_ them!"

"Do you want to go back?!"

Sherlock searched the dense forest for any other kind of escape route. I couldn't think of anything that would be in the middle of the woods, but I had remembered seeing train crates near the cannons. What was more gypsy-like than hoping aboard a moving train? "What's our way out?" Sherlock screamed to our leader.

"_That's _our way out!" Simza pointed up ahead. Sure enough, a train was coming at full speed about a mile ahead of us. We could make it if we ran fast enough. We could make it if the Germans had given up their hunt.

Oh, but what wishful thinking that had been.

The horrible noise of guns started to play out behind us. This time, it wasn't from the base of the wall or even behind a crate. It was straight at our backs. Without letting loose a scream, I watched as a bullet barely grazed my ear. Sherlock saw it too and quickly pushed me in front of him. "Run, Renadale!"

I hated that he was blocking my path, stepping in the same places as I, but there was no time to argue. There wasn't even time to plead or make peace. Our only chance was that train and it was slipping further and further away from us.

I'm not sure how I got the chance to think at this moment, but thoughts tumbled into my brain. Maybe people always did that when it felt like their last moment. The only thing that came to mind was my mother. Perhaps I was an awful daughter for not thinking of her more. My mother was still at home, waiting for me at the dinner table alone, every single night. And though it was disheartening, she never complained for long. She would wrap me up in her arms like a child again, whispering in my hair how glad she was that I was safe.

I knew nothing of her and she knew nothing of me. She had no idea where I was, nor of the troubles I was burying my head into. She could have been ill for all I knew. There was neither one letter sent nor one letter received between the pair of us. Guilt trickled into my blood and whether it was from the nerves of guns dancing past my legs or the feeling of regret, I began to run faster.

Running fast was my form of revenge. I would not let the Germans have their way. If they took me, my mother would lose the game. We weren't just running for our own lives, but for the lives of others. And the lives of others mattered more than anything else. Even if my world _was_ going to end some day.

Well, it wasn't going to be that day.

Something else was happening behind us as the thoughts finally left my head. The noise was indescribable… At first it was like a small child screaming in desperation and then the whole world shook beneath you. The turmoil we all felt was radiating between our bodies. Sherlock and I both turned to see what was happening. We wished we had not.

Huge bombs rained down upon us. It was comforting to know that only one of us had been lost to the reaper, and that Moriarty's giant weapons could not manage to harm the injured, fake gypsy-detectives. It gave me hope for the rest of humanity, considering I viewed myself at one of the lowest levels.

_Shoop._

A scream erupted my throat as something scraped the back of my neck. Two teeth of a cobra could not have felt worse had they been buried into my flesh. I could feel the blood spilling out from my body. My eyesight was once again going blurry, but the world was a circus and I could not seem to find my balance. "Renadale!" John shouted as he took my hand in his own. There was no chance for me to answer. I could not process what had happened to the back of my neck, but I knew that it was taking its toll rather quickly. "Hang on just a bit longer!"

Whatever had cut me had come from behind. I knew the snipers were there with their numerous guns as well as the bombs, but this was not from a normal bullet. My head turned curiously, and avoiding the pain, I managed to catch a glimpse of my hunter. "Sebastian Moran." The whispered tone of my voice was not from fear. It was from hatred. If John hadn't been holding my hand, I would have changed my direction and charged straight for him.

Then I remembered.

My gun.

"John!" I shrieked, frantically trying to pull my hand away. "Let me go!" John looked at me in horror. "I have to do this." Surely, he had no idea what I was going on about. I could have meant suicide for all he knew. However, none of us were in our right mindsets and he quickly let me loose.

The gun had already been cocked and I spun around to take aim. There was a minimal chance of me actually getting anywhere, but somehow the anger took control and wasn't letting go. Sebastian wasn't concerned about the injured girl with the sewn-up shoes. She was the least of his worries. This only made my target far easier to reach.

I stopped running in the woods for only a second. It had felt like a lifetime, but none of the others noticed my momentary pause. Whilst they kept running, I took my aim with alertness and fortitude. He wasn't fast enough as I pulled back the trigger and then sprinted for my life.

Whether or not I had shot him was beyond my comprehension. There wasn't time to wait and check up on him. My aiming and target skills were further away from my talents of jujitsu, which really said something. And yet when I turned back to see where he was, there was no sight of the ginger. Perhaps that was because of what happened next.

Just when you think it's all over.

Another shockwave. Another bomb blast. This time was dissimilar than the last. Fire roared up all around us, the heat of it mixing unpleasantly with the snow dripping from the sky. It rippled the Earth beneath us, sending us all flying into the air. Our feet had no control. Our minds did not know where to land us when we came rushing back to the Earth. Our limbs were not prepared to protect our more vital organs from the fall. However, the tossing of our overly worked bodies was helpful as it gave us more covered ground. None of us seemed severely hurt as we landed in a deep patch of weeds.

In fact, the blast had tossed us so far that we were daringly close to our destination. "Well!" My voice did not carry strongly over the noise. "That could have been far worse."

No one answered me. None of them moved. In fact, they were all as still as the grave with their arms and legs tucked beneath their heads like sleeping children. Something sick began to pass through my veins. I could feel myself beginning to whimper like a lost dog as I dropped to the forest floor beneath them. "Sherlock!" My quivering hands grabbed his shoulders to shake the life back into him. An audible whimper fell from my lips when no response came. "Sherlock, we have to hurry!" My forehead pressed against his in desperation. "Sherlock, they're _coming_!"

That seemed to do the trick. A large gasp of air was blessed upon him, and without a word, he slapped his two partners back into consciousness. A strange moment of happiness passed by me, but it was not for long.

As we started running once again with our lack of breath actually noticeable this time, Sherlock held onto me for support. The wound was raining blood all down his body. There was a waterfall of red across his side. I could see it trailing over his hip, down his trousers and towards the bottom of his shoe where he stepped on it without notice. He kept a firm grip on the hole embedded in his shoulder. A strange thought trickled past my mind when I noticed this.

_Now we match. _Our scarred shoulders would no doubt remind us of the other.

Maybe we would laugh about it later.

"_Sie sind tot!_"

The words meant nothing, but the language was unimpressively German, which meant our enemies had not given up. The sound of black leather boots joined the rushing of our muddied, brown ones. We were going to fight ourselves to the death before the train even had a chance to whistle her greetings. The Germans turned the spears of their guns on us without any hesitation. Simza was the first to be sent to the ground with a furious shove, but John and Sherlock had a better handle on things. Sherlock needed no weapon to take down the two men around him. He was not in the mood to play games. A man shoved a gun in his direction, but he caught it quickly beneath his arm. With a quick switch of the bullet and a steady pass onto Watson, John began to take his aim towards the top of the hill. I watched them momentarily in awe, before I realized who their target was.

"Sebastian!" I cursed hotly beneath my breath. John was going to go for the goal, but my anger flared up before he could even comprehend my presence. My gun aimed straight towards the ragged army 'hero' and shot him deeply in the… Well, I once again wasn't sure where I shot him, but he fell and that was all that mattered to me.

"_Rena_?" John asked in surprise, chucking the large gun to the ground. "Where did that come from?"

"Hate," I grumbled mostly to myself. "Hate for a man who shows up to a wedding that he isn't even invited to."

A whistle put all of our thoughts on hold. The train's pace was slow, but with our damaged bodies, even the sluggish trudging was too much of a match for us. Yet, we had to take it. If we didn't, we would be stuck on the outskirts of Württemberg for the rest of our very short-lived lives.

Reaching the bottom wasn't a problem. It was catching up to the train and trying to climb aboard that was the issue. Simza hopped on easily. Her life was constantly on the move and this was nothing to her. The three of us on the other hand must have looked like fools. John and Sherlock struggled over one another, as Simza screamed for them to hurry up.

"Enough!" John screamed with as much energy as he could muster up. "I've had enough of this and we are getting on that _God-forsaken_ _train_!" Without any consent, Watson hauled me inside of the dark crate. I screamed when I was hauled into the air and thrown roughly onto the wooden floor.

When I managed to look up, Sherlock and John had both gotten inside as well. Finally, a sigh of relief fell from my lips. It was a sigh that I would never forget.

Tamas finally got in as well, but just as the last member of our party was struggling to get on, one last battle was made. A bullet was fired straight into the man's back as he clasped onto the edge. This was a man whose name I did not even get the chance to learn. Like a lost battle flag, he was left alone on the snow-covered ground. "Marko! _Marko!_" I heard Tamas shout behind a sea of tears. The sound was more heartbreaking than the bullet that captured his friend's life, and with blurry eyes, he turned back to us. "Non, non, non…" He kept mumbling to himself as he crashed to the floor beside me. It was a word I understood. My eyes could not leave his face as he weakly muttered things to himself. His face finally hid from my watchful eyes as they found solace in the palm of his hands.

As the train continued it's path, the body of the dead passed along with her. There was nothing left for us to look at but the snow in the valleys as they soon came whirling into our line of vision. My feet tried to balance the rest of my broken body while I stumbled to the edge of the door. No one bothered to ask what I was doing, but with a long glance towards the weeping Tamas, I took the gun from my vest and tossed it from the train. It hit the ground with a thud and then it left my sight forever.

"Such a funny thing," I whispered. Tamas looked as if my words were insignificant, or perhaps he was pretending that he could not hear me. It didn't matter who was listening. I just wanted to laugh about the irony of it all. "… Today is my twenty-sixth birthday."

My eyes turned back to the sky. The blueness reminded me of a peace in which I never knew, and the eyes of a familiar hanging man.

**~.~.~.~.~**

**Hello…**

**I don't think we've properly met. I'm Renadale Adkins. I suppose I do talk directly to you in this story, but I… Well. I don't actually know who you are. **

**We could solve this horrible issue, though! I think! My plans never seem to be very good, so I might just be going out on a whim here. **

**If you happened to leave a review, I would get a better understanding of who all of my lovely readers and friends are… That's what friends do, right?**

**Well, what do you say? **

**Friends?**

**Yours,**

**~Renadale Adkins~**


	18. Electricity

**THANKS FOR ALL THE REVIEWS. And sorry for the late update. School has started back up, and it's hard to juggle everything. –weeps pathetically- I'm also in an opera right now as a ballet dancer, so… I think you can imagine how that's taking up my time. It's really wonderful to see new faces in the comments however, and I hope I keep hearing from everyone. You're all so lovely.**

**Dedicated to Toxic-Mai-Panda for her amazingly sweet PM. I hope we all get to see her amazing art skills in the near future! :3 3**

**AND this is once again dedicated to The Saintlike Weasley for yet ANOTHER fucking brilliant banner! PLEASE go and check out the new addiction on my main page for Rena/Sherlock goodness! 3 **

**I have the best fans in the world. All of you are incredibly beautiful. **

**Now I feel really bad about taking ages to update.**

**~Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

Twenty-six years old. Twenty-six years old with nothing to give, nothing to offer to the world and nothing to look back on with a lifetime's supply of fondness. Twenty-six years old and still living with her mother. Unmarried. Childless. 'Disgrace' would be a synonym for both of the expressions.

The worst part was being twenty-six and watching the only man you'd ever loved crumble to pieces before your eyes. Watching him die out easily, like some disease caught in the dead of winter and unable to survive the spring. Fading quickly until you're so afraid to blink that your eyes burn from unfallen tears.

The train's movements were peaceful and smooth, despite the breaking of my heart. Snowfall graced us with a performance through the open doors, but only hell lingered inside. Sherlock's wounds were deepening, and though I wanted to be selfless, the pain in mine was utterly excruciating. Every turn of my neck released another sharp prick throughout my body, covering my skin in cold sweat. A scream was locked behind clenched teeth. I had to stay still. Very still.

Sherlock's mouth released short gasps for air as he crumbled further into the floor. Keeping still would be hard, but I didn't want them to worry about me. The main concern was Sherlock. It would always be Sherlock. Simza quickly moved her knees beneath him, offering him a makeshift pillow. "John, quickly!" She whispered with a terrified expression. "What are we supposed to do?" Blood rushed out from his shoulder, his neck, his face. Everywhere. There was blood everywhere. "Il est mourant…"

"Keep him still," John urged. I counted my blessings that John was alive and functioning. He could fix Sherlock this time around as he had on so many other occasions. Of course he could. _Of course he can._ "Hold something over the wound so the blood stops spilling from him. It'll give me a minute to think."

_Spilling _from him. _Spilling. _Like a broken cup of tea dropped from an unexpected knock on the door.

"Yes, of course." Simza's voice was flushed. I watched as Tamas gave a long look of concern, but he caught my gaze quickly and turned the focus to me. It hurt to turn my neck away, so we continued to stare at one another with an unintelligible conversation. It was only when he approached me that I fully understood how intimidating that ridiculous man could be.

"You're calm because why?" His voice was quiet, like we were sharing a secret. John and Simza were too preoccupied with their patient to notice.

"There is no stillness in me. How could I be calm in a time like this?" If he did not notice the straining in my throat, he was a fool.

John's voice rose above my own. "Simza, simza, stop! He's choking." Tight arms wrapped themselves around my chest, squeezing me until my airflow was cut off entirely. Choking. I looked down to try and push the arms away, but no one was there.

_Choking. _Like a wounded animal. _Choking for air. _

Sure enough, a sputtering sound arose from my love's cracked lips. As the blood trickled from his open chest, I could feel the same sensation happening down my back. I did not move to stop the blood from my neck from its path. Only when it reached my hips did it halt its course. Our blood would fall equally.

"Neck is hurt?" Tamas's brows came together in his forehead. His fingers gently pushed hair away from my neck. Though I wanted to be strong, a wince flew from my lungs and out into the bitter atmosphere.

"It's not the bullet that hurts," I explained. "It's…" _Watching him. Watching him is what is hurting me. Watching him is killing me._

"He is going to be fine."

It was the first perfect sentence he had spoken, but somehow his words did not convince me. I couldn't bring myself to comfort him now that he had lost Marcus. There was no gentle heart beating inside me. Without Sherlock Holmes, I would lose myself. And therefore, no one else mattered.

I knew that I was dark. Evil, perhaps in the most selfish of ways. My morals were straying from the path of goodness. In fact, the path had been brushed away long ago. All that was left was a very thin line of pebbles, waiting to be stomped on and conquered. It was like my kindness was shriveling up inside of me like the heart inside of Sherlock Holmes. I _wanted_ to kill a man today. Moran. There was no sympathy inside me for a man who offered me his food and horses, and had only just lost his closest friend. For months, I'd been leaving my mother behind to go on 'adventures' that offered me nothing but the twisted idea of romance and some form of self-worth. All because I was selfish. Disgustingly so. Maybe that was why I could never be loved.

Simza's lips parted while her hands found Sherlock's hair. Her voice set free a song in Romani, the lyrics hauntingly beautiful but hauntingly tragic. It was a song to keep him safe. It was a song to keep him alive.

Though blood dripped down my neck, I had to collapse my head in my hands. Pain cut through me like a knife and a swelling scream erupted from my throat. The noise did not sound like me, a creature begging for mercy. Tamas watched my frustration with quizzicality. John looked frightened by my sudden declaration, but anger and other warped emotions were coiling around every one of my veins. Screams were suppressing the anger straight into my muscles.

That was when I threw myself from the train.

Not that I fell off, nor did I die. There was a ladder attached to the outside of the cart. I reached out with as steady of a hand I could offer, swinging myself through the air until my body slammed with a thud against the moving vehicle. My feet gripped the steps for support as more pain slid its way to my head. Nothing was going to stop me from getting away. Not even the ripping of my own skin.

Even though I knew he needed me at that moment, _nothing _was going to stop me.

"Renadale!" Watson screamed after me. My head did not turn back to face him. This may have been due to the excruciating pain I found myself in, and partially because I knew his blue eyes would convince me of my foolishness. I did not need him to tell me what I was with his stare.

_A coward._

Not this time. I wasn't going to listen to him, despite his frantic shouts. There were pleads for me to come back inside, laced with distressed calls of my name. As I climbed, each snowy bar took me closer towards the roof. I was thankful for its flatness, but even if it had been curved, the risk made no difference.

The roar of the wind in my ears was soothing. Like a low hum, it hugged my body with resonance. And though there was noise, it was as if that moment were heavier than a deep silence. Sharp flicks of snow scratched my wound, but I could feel the cold air running the blood dry. "See?" The whisper flooded out of me as I laid my body against the top of the train. My head pressed against the cold metal as bits of snow found their demise against the warmth of my cheek. My eyes flickered shut as I was propelled into unstoppable motion. "Sometimes the cold isn't always for the worst."

_This wound isn't the worst pain._

My teeth dug into my lip as the lie trickled through my head.

_The worst pain is watching him die._

That was not a lie.

My eyes open with a startled gasp from my lips. I hadn't even noticed that I was holding my breath. Like a broken toy, my body began to shake with fits of tears. They stuck to my cheeks nearly the second after they fell, but they melted the snow beneath them, burying my hair in a pool of water. I could feel the train's steam barely grazing the top of my head. If I lifted it, a world of white fog would encompass me. Maybe that world was better than the hell I was in.

"_Please_…" My desperation was aimed to no one in particular. "Don't… don't take…" Trying to speak was useless. Almost as useless as trying to stop the snow from falling in Switzerland. Once again, my voice did not belong to me, but this time to a shattered soul who could do nothing but pray and weep. Or perhaps, the voice did belong to me, but I did not recognize her.

I had promised myself to him. Whether he was with me or not, inwardly my heart would always belong to Sherlock Holmes. Though it was long ago, he had promised to protect me. He promised to love me. How could he do that if he was dead? How could he do that if he was not here? We do not understand the promises we are making when we make them. I didn't need protection. I could handle things myself.

I just _wanted_ him.

"Why…?" The question was forced from my lips. Turning my eyes to the clouds, white flakes trickled into my line of vision. They hurt as they hit my open pupils, but I welcomed any pain that found me. "What is it for?" My voice was rising in my throat. "What is _any of it _for?" Now I was screaming at the mountains. Screaming at the Earth. Screaming at God or whoever was listening. "_How has this been fair?" _

"Renadale!"

I ignored the warning voice. Finding strength beneath my skirt, I lifted myself so that I could stand on top of the world. The rest of the train stretched out in front of me, each cart no more than a couple of feet away from the other. And for the first time in my life, I wanted to _run_. Run away from the hills. Run away from the snow. Run away from the life that I knew and the life I dreamt. The train tops were my only option. I carried myself over to the ledge. Looking down, I saw a metal hook that connected the trains together. A metal hook that kept things going. I had known another metal hook that broke a man. A metal hook that tore him and his lover apart.

Damn the metal hooks.

With a bend of my knees, I knew that I was going to do it. I was going to jump onto the next cart, and then the next, and so on. Run. Run away and never look back. Because there was nothing left for me on that train. I was tired of looking for something that could never be found, so I would have to find something that I never thought to look for.

"Renadale!"

_Don't look back._

"You hear me there?"

_Stop listening to Tamas. _

"What are you doing?"

_Run into the open._

"Renadale, he is _awake_!"

Just like my shout from earlier, another animal shriek erupted from the train's insides. The noise was shocking and slightly terrifying, but the more I listened, the more familiar it seemed to be. "S-Sherlock?" I could hardly believe it. My ears were tormenting me as my mind slipped further into insanity. I tore my body away from the ledge to hang my head over the door. All thoughts of running had been forgotten. Sure enough, everyone in the cart was standing up.

Everyone.

"Sherlock!" My legs flung over the edge without precaution, and I climbed carelessly into the box. Once inside, I could feel my chest heaving from surprise, adrenaline, and the overwhelming urge to kiss him. The man's state was utterly repulsive. Of course, I hate having to describe him as such, but there was no other word for it. His hair was flat and unparted, spraying out in every direction. His clothes were stained with sweat, snow and blood, the scent almost as repulsive as the hedgehog goulash. Though his eyes met mine for a second, his hands quickly collapsed to his chest before recognition came.

"_Who's been dancing on my chest!?"_

His sudden amount of vigor was alarming. "Where did that came from?" I whispered to Tamas. His lip curled ever so slightly before he pointed to a needle in Watson's hand. Of course. The wedding present. The answer had been there all along, almost as if he had…

Planned it?

He couldn't have.

"Me," Watson replied casually. Whether it was to Sherlock's question or my own, I would never know.

Sherlock's eyes rolled backwards in his head before sorting themselves back to normal. It didn't take him long to find me with his bloodshot eyes. He was like a deer caught in the late hours of the wood. Startled and afraid. Though I wanted to hold his gaze, I was the one who turned. There was fear inside of me. Fear that he could see right through me and into my conscience.

"Why is my leg so itchy?" Sherlock groaned.

"Because you have a large piece of wood sticking out of it," John replied. Sure enough, a splinter the size of my fist was embedded into his leg. Bright red blood was splattered like paint around the bits of tree. My hands reached forward to help him sit down, but John was already ahead of me. I felt numb. Useless. I was going to leave him. He would have been alive and I might not have been there anymore.

"You! Tamas!" Sherlock's shaky finger directed itself towards the weary gypsy. "I have an important job to discuss with you." His voice struggled to grasp air as John pushed him onto a crate. "Remind me of it… later."

Sherlock Holmes had just died, and already he was back to work. Somehow none of us were surprised. "Sit down," John ordered. He stuck out a small vial to Sherlock, whose eyes couldn't seem to focus on just one thing. "Drink this. I need to get that out before it turns septic."

When the realization that he was speaking of the splinter struck me, I had to turn away. Sherlock was going to be in pain again. His screams on the first case were enough to haunt me. His screams on the second case broke my heart. His screams on our third case gave me nightmares, but I knew his screams would succeed in breaking me altogether this time around.

With a firm step, I carried myself to the other side of the room. My breath was the only noise of comfort now. No one took notice of me; something I was entirely grateful for.

"Leave it in." Sherlock's voice whispered with a shaky tone. Any second now and he would—"Leave it _in!_" I could hear the sound of skin gashing from across the cabin. My eyes squeezed shut as I imagined the pain on Sherlock's face. No doubt John would be smiling. There were a few grunts and insults passed between the two, but I was too concentrated on my breathing methods to hear their banter. It was only when my name was spoken that I truly came to attention. "Why is Renadale over there?" Sherlock's voice was flushed as he asked his question. "Someone bring her over to me."

Shame boiled inside of me. They would have to drag me.

A firm hand found it's way around my shoulder. Why did my life always have to contradict itself? I gasped in slight pain, but Simza's black eyes were unforgiving and demanding. "He needs you."

"He doesn't."

"He _does_."

"I nearly left. He doesn't know how much I wanted to leave him when he was dying. I won't be able to face him."

"You're an idiot if you were planning on leaving," she said sharply. "You're not a gypsy. You can't jump on a train, let alone off it. Now stop wallowing in self-pity and come and see him. You're the only thing that will do him some good." Whether she was right or wrong, I had to listen. Her tone was too convincing and knowing that Sherlock was only inches away; there was nothing I could do about it. Slowly and carefully, I let her drag me across the cart until I was standing beside his makeshift bed. He knew I was there, but his eyes did not turn to me. Instead, they fixated themselves on Watson.

"I'm sorry you didn't get to Brighton."

My heart nearly shattered at his words. A weakened gasp fell from my parted lips, but I quickly sealed them to keep my emotions hidden. He almost died and his first thought was of wanting me beside him. His second thought was an apology. There was nothing that could have made me love him more in that moment. People were wrong about Sherlock Holmes. He had more heart and soul than the best of them.

John's response came after a while. He wasn't there to comfort his friend or make himself feel better for his wrongs. John was honest, as always. With a prolonged gaze, his eyes grew a bit darker with a tear lingering on the edge. "Me too." He tossed the bloodied splinter aside with a long gaze at the floor. I knew what he wanted to say. I knew who was on his mind. "I think we should go home."

"I concur." Sherlock's face wore a devious smirk. This was something we _never_ expected him to say, especially when Moriarty was so closely within our reach. "We're going home." An audible gasp from fell John's lips. I have never seen the man looked more thrilled with blood splattered across his torso. "… _via_ Switzerland."

There was the answer I expected.

"What better place to start a war…" Sherlock continued with a fantasized look behind his closed eyes. "… then a peace summit? I'll drop in and see my brother. I'm sure he's missed you." Sherlock's eyes cracked open. Sadness lingered in the creases near his eyes, though his mouth wore a smile. He knew something. "I _know_ he's missed you," he said with his face turned to me.

My thoughts were correct.

This was all part of the plan.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Night trickled over the train, and though the steam continued overhead, the snow was easing up. It was cold with the open door, and the two gypsies and John found warmth in the far right corner of the room. Sherlock and I were on the opposite end, awake with blood pumping through our veins, most likely due to our incurable injuries. I could see the impulse crossing his face every five minutes. An urge to get out and fight.

"Sherlock," I said quietly from the floor beside him. "How are you feeling?"

It was the first time I had spoken to him since the others had decided to sleep. It was the first time I had spoken to him alone. Though I had loved the man and sworn by it, I was nervous to speak to him. He could see right through me just as I could see through him.

"Physically, my recovery time might be a few weeks time. Perhaps a couple of months. Psychologically, I think my brain is a bit weary and shocked from the state of things, but that only tends to make my mind sharper and more aware of its surroundings."

A bump rose in my throat. "How about… emotionally?"

"Weeds grow when you do not wish them to," Sherlock muttered with unblinking eyes. "And flowers fall when you long for them to stay with you." My heartbeat paused for a second to think about what he said. All thoughts traced back to me. Me leaving. How did he…? "Your whispering isn't as quiet as you think."

Oh.

"And I just know you." His voice had never been so quiet. "You've already predicted that this whole thing has gone according to plan, or at least was speculated to happen. I guessed many things, but I hadn't thought of you leaving."

"Sherlock…" Excuses and defenses rushed into my throat. Though I could think of hundreds, maybe even thousands of reasons as to why I could have left, none of them were good enough. Nothing was a good reason to leave Sherlock Holmes.

He shook his head quickly. "You don't have to think of an excuse. You don't need one. I should have been more keenly attuned to your reactions and your feelings." He sighed heavily, more frustrated with himself than anyone else. "I've been so focused on Moriarty I haven't been able to pay attention to the one person that matters most to me."

Though the words were beyond loving, I could not just accept them. "You deserve more than this."

"More than what?" His blooded head looked down at the ground where I was situated.

"More than this cat and mouse chase. More than Switzerland. More than a hook embedded into your chest and…" Could I say it? Would I dare to? "More than me." It was the truth. He deserved more than a girl that was willing to leave him at his worst.

A scoff was not was I was expecting to hear out of him. My neck stung with a sudden breeze blowing inside the cabin, but all of my attention was on that tiny, little scoff. "I don't care what I deserve. This is my life, and I have chosen you, whether or not you think I deserve it. Based on the implications and quandaries that I have brought about not only on my own life, but upon your life and John's life, and perhaps the lives of these lovely gypsies, I would think it would be reasonable to assume that I don't actually deserve _any_ form of companionship. Or at worst, a kitchen wench with a reputation for lack of emotion. And a balding head." I couldn't help but laugh, despite the grim topic. He quickly turned serious. "Life is fleeting, Renadale. That is something you have to remember."

"Because…?"

"When the woman you love decides that she's better off alone than with you, you realize that you have not done your duty to show how much you love her." Sherlock laughed again, but sourly this time and almost painfully. "If you think that running around Switzerland by yourself is better off than living in London, then surely I have not done enough to give you faith in humanity. You're a lost soul, Renadale. And I cannot seem to save you."

It was by far the harshest thing Sherlock Holmes had ever said to me. And yet, it was undeniably accurate. Every step that I took, a worry planted itself in my mind. With each breath that I inhaled, fear trickled inside of me instead of blood. And with every kiss and every stare and extra heartbeat that I had for Sherlock Holmes, I grew weaker instead of stronger. His love should have made me brave. It might have at one point. But now, it was fading. Fading like the sun in the sky.

"It's easy," I said softly. Whether or not he heard me was of little concern. "It's easy to look away. It's easier to not do anything at all." My chest shuddered as the confession choked out of me. "Because I'm scared. Because I've been scared my entire life and I can't stop running from it. For a second, I can let it go and be someone else. I can ride a horse through France and feel liberated. But when the thoughts come back and the moon comes up, I get lost in the darkness of the physical world and of my own mind." He was so quiet; I thought he might have been asleep. However, I carried on. "My life isn't even that bad. That's the saddest part of it all."

A soft voice from above took me by surprise. "Why were you going to leave me?"

He was a fool if he did not know the answer. "Because I cannot live without you. I believed you were lost to us." There was a long stretch of silence. I could feel the hair standing straight up on every part of my body. Whether it was from fear, anticipation, or the night air, they refused to go down. "You didn't know?"

"I knew," Sherlock sighed. I could tell how tired he was. "I just wanted to hear you say it. I wanted to make sure that you knew it yourself." Pathetically and like a child, I found solace between my knees. My arms wrapped themselves tightly around my shins as my tear-stained face buried itself from the world. He could see my back shaking from silent sobs, I was certain of it, but he carried on like it was nothing. "You can kill me in that way, Renadale. In the way of words. You and your words could be the death of me. You don't need bullets or swords." He paused. "Just tell me that you love me."

My head snapped up angrily, though I should have been keen on the suggestion. "How could I tell you such a thing when you declare that my words physically ail you?"

"Because your words can heal me."

"That just makes me a contradiction."

"That is why I love you."

_Love_. He had been saying it a lot since he'd woken up. Slipping it in conversations. Talking about my own love. Talking about his. Why? What did it matter now? His eyes flickered to meet my own. A glimpse of the silver moonlight trickled through a crack in the train, dancing across his tired face. And though he was stained, bruised and battered, his expression reached a point of beauty so astounding that I nearly wept from its impact.

"I… I l-love you." My voice broke on the word, forcing me to repeat myself. Not because I was fearful of the emotion. I was fearful of what would follow.

"Albeit my madness."

"Madness does not come without a sense of wonder," I muttered up to him. He offered me a genuine smile, though my shame was still too raging to return the gesture. "What is it that makes us attracted to the unknown?"

"A feeling that I might offer you something better than what you already know." His voice was soft. With a grunt and a scooting of his body, he moved over on the wooden crate with enough space beside him for another person. My eyes grazed to the other side of the room, where my three companions lay deep in their sleep. Surely, that spot was only meant for me. "Renadale. Come." I followed his orders, crawling towards him in the darkness. His body was overly warm as I pressed up beside him. He might not have wanted it, but I took his hands carefully in my own. They were as white as a dove's wings, though hardly as soft and gentle. "You know that I am not upset with you," he whispered. "It's hard to think rationally during times like this."

A small nod of my head was my answer. He was carrying the chessboard with him. There was no getting rid of the game anymore. We would play until a winner was declared. Some pieces had to be broken. Some had to run onto the board and some had to stay behind. This was the way it had to be. More shame clouded my eyes as I pictured myself moving towards the board, but then changing my mind and running away. His hands might have been alone that night. They might have been cold and only able to comfort one another, had it not been for Tamas shouting after me. Now he could have my hands.

"Stop your weeping," Sherlock grumbled, rubbing his itchy sleeves across my face. "Although, tears do release a sort of emotional breakthrough that helps cleanse your-"

"Sherlock," I mumbled. "Science. Not a good time."

"Of course not," he sighed. "It never is."

My hands trickled over his like water, filling in the creases and smoothing the exterior. He watched carefully as I danced over each knuckle and bruise, making sure to be as gentle as I would his heart. He had to know how much I loved him. How much I yearned for him. And now, in new ways that were shameful. I was a disgrace on an emotional level, and now my mind was polluted. Or, was this how it was supposed to feel? Was this a natural thing? I was far to embarrassed to ask.

"I feel sick when you look so reprehensible," he muttered. "My own heart breaks when I watch you struggle." He did not sound like himself. However, he had actually experienced death. No one could ever be asked to return the same way. "Please don't look so frustrated with yourself."

"It's not just about my decision to leave," I cursed hotly. I let his fingers slip from my own. "It's something else entirely."

"Could you speak to me about it?"

"Of course not."

"Why '_of course_'?"

My heart was racing. What if he saw the truth? What if he saw how badly I wanted him and in the _way_ that I wanted him? No. There would have to be a limit on how well Sherlock Holmes truly knew me. "It's nothing," I stuttered. "Absolutely… nothing."

"Absolutely?"

My head snapped up warningly. Heat flickered through my eyes and burned inside of my chest. Though this time it was not from anger. It was from my secret wish. My secret husband and wife desire. And if I was planning on keeping it hidden from him, it was entirely in the open now.

"You know…" Sherlock warned. "You're easier to read than you think."

The shame and fear building inside of me was turning to one of frustration. And that frustration was becoming something else entirely. It's not that I wanted Sherlock at that particular moment, but I wanted him to know that I had never imagined a thing in my entire life and that he was the only man I could dream of. "Perhaps being easy to read isn't a terrible thing." The statement sounded more like a question when I spoke it. "Perhaps the receiver might feel the same."

"Feel the same about…?" He wasn't going to make me say it. A toothy smirk cracked across his face. It was unlike him: daring and exciting but in an entirely new way. Romantic. Passionate. Desirous. This was not the Sherlock Holmes I knew. Then again, my whole world was turning upside down. "I'm sorry, but I feel as though I'm failing to understand where you're going with this."

More than one man could play this game. If Sherlock was going to make me out to be a fool, then I would respond wholeheartedly. I would look like a foolish girl in love if that was what he wanted. What he didn't realize was that love was his biggest weakness. "Oh," I said slowly with an extra bat of my eyelashes. He instantly recognized my strange demeanor and recoiled ever so slightly. "You want to know what's bothering me?" Before he could reject the idea, I was off on my rant. "Because, truthfully, I was just curious as to what your thoughts were on the topic of…" He looked like he was going to prepare himself for a suicide mission. "Marriage."

Not even another giant hook looming over him could so profoundly express the fear that Sherlock Holmes carried on his features in that moment. With a twitch of the lip and a sputter of coughs, I knew I had struck revenge in the right time. Despite my little interest in the actual convention of marriage, getting revenge on Sherlock Holmes was agonizingly sweet.

"Marriage is a thing that two persons do when they have little else to preoccupy themselves. And perhaps for monetary reasons."

My body crawled further towards him. With the taunt, he slammed himself as far into the wall as he could. But, I was dangerously close now and with his bad arm and leg, he wasn't going anywhere. "So, what you're saying is that the best time for _you _to get married is when a case has ended and another has yet to present itself?"

"I'm… I'm not saying that I should… get…get…"

"Married."

"Correct. Yes. That one. That word. I don't think I should get it. Not for me."

My eyes were those of a hawk. His face was less than two inches away from mine, and I watched as his fearful eyes flickered shut. Though it did make me a bit gloomy to see his fear at such a romantic notion, laughter was the only thing I could manage to thrust at him. There were to be no more angry scowls from me. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm only joking. My talk of marriage killed you more than that splinter did."

"At least I knew the splinter was there!" His tone turned angry. "Unlike your sudden rambling of legal bindings and specifications." With a snort of disgust, he tugged the flaps of his shirt down, as if securing his manliness via his threadbare clothing. As if it were ever there. "Your words really will be the death of me."

Though he had died earlier, somehow giving him a minor heart attack was an enjoyable thing for me. I hummed myself a little ditty before returning back to my original position. Sherlock had some space to breathe, while I now had some time to laugh gaily to myself.

"You weren't really thinking of it were you?" The question took me off guard. I merely stared blankly at the bruised detective. "Marriage," he muttered. "I was talking about marriage. You weren't really considering it?"

"No. Of course not." And that was the truth. Technically, I hadn't been literally looking into the idea at the time. That's not to say that the idea hadn't crossed me before. "After twenty-six years of life and only one man that I've ever wanted to spend it with… Well, I've given up on the shoddy idea. It's a matter of time and convenience, I suppose. Two things I find myself lacking."

Sherlock's face expressed the words that were unspoken. Marriage was not as frightening as he thought. Not when you were tied to the person you loved. "Could you love me?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Could you love me," he muttered. "As a wife loves a husband." I felt sick with the question. Did he mean physically? Emotionally? Whatever he meant, my heart had already fallen out, rolled through the door and into the snow. I was frozen. There was nothing moving inside of my body. "Renadale?"

"Sherlock Holmes," I managed to squeak out. The rest of my thoughts evaporated somewhere over the mountains.

"You're not answering my question."

"I'm… not sure that I entirely understand it."

He took a heavy sigh. I hadn't noticed how much closer we had grown. Surely he must have taken my shock as an advantage; his body was nearly atop mine. Thankfully our blood had dried and nothing was dripping or ripping. "Could you love me in the way that a wife loves a husband?" He took a pause. My eyes rose slowly towards his own, the fire in them unable to be restrained. "As a wife loves a husband in the night time?"

He was playing games. A wide smile broke out onto his face once he caught sight of my instant reaction. The whole thing was just to upset me. My hands clenched until they hurt. The tightness of my body hurt my neck, and as Sherlock started to speak again, all I could hear was a bubble of noise.

So, I kissed him.

His lips were hard and chapped from the winter air and lack of general health between our company. The sudden shock caused him to loose his balance and slam his body atop mine. I could feel the cold touch of blood against my arm, but I pushed him back and stared warningly into his eyes. "If you ever tease me again, I hope you know that I will take it upon myself to-"

It was inevitable. He was going to kiss me because we needed it, not because it was what we both wanted. His lips found mine with a quiet passion. Almost dangerous with the others just across the cart. A secret fire burned between our chests and the cold air seemed long gone. When he pulled back, his watchful eyes made me self-conscious. I tried to turn my head, but his fingers caught my chin from moving. His eyes tried to express something to me, but I couldn't pick up on it. "Are you alright?" I whispered through a heavy sigh. Though the cart was wide open, I suddenly found it hard to breathe.

For a moment, I thought he was angry. His expression grew tense with unspoken frustration. Maybe he realized what a failure I was. But his body was looming over my like a blanket, and I couldn't help but feel protected rather than threatened. When he finally spoke, all of my fear washed itself away. "You are the only thing that keeps me going."

I planted another soft kiss upon his cheek, taking in the scent of him. Part of it reminded me of the smoky smell of his London flat, but the rest sensed of blood, sweat, and if embarrassment had a smell… "We'll be fine once we reach Mycroft," I reassured. He did not seem convinced. "Your brother has always had a way for showing up when he's least expected and most needed."

"I think you've gotten the two backwards."

"Either way," my voice was slow. "In a few hours, we'll be getting off of this train. Things will be back to the way they were. We will trap Moriarty in the bag and be done with it. Then we can go home together." Sherlock's eyes flickered over my face for a moment, as if taking it in for the last time. "Unless you're not telling me something."

"I've told you all that you need to know." He removed his body from mine, sitting back against the wall as before. The wood kept my back stiff and now that his body was no longer sheltering me, a brush of cold air tickled my skin. "Everything you have said is correct. Mycroft is the game changer. This will be the end of it."

My hand reached out for his, taking his warm fingers back into my embrace. I could feel bumpy scars on their way to forming, and rough patches where muscle was more visible than skin. To me, he was beautiful. "I'll never forget the day you noticed the mud on my boots."

He smirked. He hadn't forgotten either. "I knew instantly where you'd been trekking around."

My eyes jerked towards his direction without a turn from my head. "What can you tell about me now?"

Sherlock didn't waste a second. It had been ages since he'd last analyzed something. Hand-to-hand combat was the consumption of our case now. There was not much time for intrigue and mystery anymore. Oddly enough, I actually missed his ramblings. "Judging by the water stains on your left cheek, you'd been pressed up against something wet. It wasn't just your tears; those would be forming in streaks. Surely, the only other option must be snow." I tried to stop him. Reminding myself of my narrow escape would prove hazardous to my emotions, but there was no quitting once he started. "I can also tell by the ripped hem of your dress that you've been somewhere sharp and dangerous. Aha, but where could that be on a train?" His eyes briefly turned towards the door before a knowing smile came about his face. "So, after you climbed up the stairs rather shakily, which also resulted on that bruise near your elbow, you regretted many life long decisions and pressed your head into the snow to ponder your next move."

"How did you know about me regretting my life?" For a minute I thought it might have been visible somewhere on my body. A scar on my cheek or a bruise on my leg.

"Because I know you. And it's written all over your face. And when you stood up on top of that train, I could feel it from inside. I could feel in my frozen heart that something wasn't right." He blinked away what I thought might be tears. It was too dark to tell. "You were leaving me and I had no say. I would have shouted at you, pulled you back in, but I had no voice-"

My heart was trembling inside my chest. "Sherlock, please, I wasn't-"

"You were so close to running. So close to leaving. If I would have woken up and felt your absence in the room…" He fumbled with the next few words. Part of me wanted to hear them. Part of me wanted to rip off my ears with each shaky breath he let loose. "I would have rather of been dead."

Tears did not fall. Anger swelled up instead, turning those tears into fire deep inside my stomach. This anger was not for Sherlock Holmes, but for myself. "I am an ignorant woman," I confessed through a low whisper. "All my life I have been selfish. I have hid from the world because I didn't want anyone to get to know me. I was my own and no one could hinder that. The day I met you, things changed. Doors open and I got the chance to close them or keep them so. My life started the day I walked down Baker Street and knocked on your door. But I knew that it would end if I ever had to walk down that street without you."

Sherlock wasn't upset with me. He was saddened by the idea that I could have been lost, perhaps a bit disappointed, but there was no hostility written on his face. He gave my hand a tight squeeze. Electricity of some unknown force swelled between us. I wasn't the only one to feel it. "These next few days will be hard," he confessed. "I need you beside me."

"I will never leave you."

He set free a heavy sigh before closing his eyes. "You will never leave me," he muttered. "But I might have to leave you."

I thought I might have misunderstood him. I thought because of the wind and the fact that his sentence was less than a whisper that his words were only taunting. He did not clarify. I did not ask. Instead, sleep came upon us both gently at first, until I awoke in the night from a nightmare. A nightmare of Sherlock drowning. Sherlock gasping for air.

And with his last breath, he said nothing.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

hello

we are friends

you can speak

so put words in the place down beneath words

the box thing

i want to know you

and your thought

on story

merci

-tamas


	19. The White Hands of Suffocation

**Thanks for the glorious reviews! Let's get to 400 next time, shall we? **

**AND. Take a look at my profile please, for the almighty The Saintlike Weasley has created ANOTHER beautiful banner, but this time for the current story. **

**This is strange, but this story has almost come to a close! How did it happen so fast? I'll be sure to drag it out a bit longer… because then we only have one more story. Then the series is over.**

**Forever.**

**Depressed yet?**

**Love you ALL. 3 **

_Halliston: _I never actually wrote a story with the Blackwood case. In the first Sherlock story, "Kisses of Ten", Renadale briefly mentions it. The first story takes place shortly after the Blackwood case. The following three take place between the Blackwood case and 'A Game of Shadows' :D Hope this clears things up

**~MistroStrings**

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

When the train finally stopped, my whole body had stopped with it. Every muscle in me was past being sore. I was numb. My neck was beyond repair and I could feel the crumbling of my skin each time I moved. There wasn't any time to complain or seek help. Mycroft would know what to do. And if he wouldn't, he'd be able to find someone who did.

The train wasn't a passenger train, so sneaking off without getting noticed was a trouble in itself. A couple of men were touring the crates while gathering supplies to ship into the cities. At the first sound of their boots, Simza awoke from her sleep with alertness and energy "We have to get out of here." Her tone frightened me enough to jump out if the train was still in motion, but I was too weak to move. Sleep had not supplied any rejuvenation. "Did you not hear me?" Her scarred hands shoved Tamas awake. John sputtered up at the sound of commotion, his reaction almost as bad as if he had been injected with Sherlock's wedding present.

"Do keep it down," Sherlock grumbled. I watched as his head fell against the side of the wall. "The day has been long and I fear I need some nourishment." If I thought I was lacking motivation, I suddenly become a hero compared to the detective.

"Fine," the gypsy replied. "Save your own skin when they find you." Simza wasn't going to wait around for the likes of us. She had a brother in need of saving. With a quick hop from the edge of the cart, she disappeared from my view before I even had time to ask where she was headed. Tamas followed her like a lost dog, but part of me presumed he also knew their path.

That left the three of us. The useless trio. The pathetic triplet. Nothing could save our sorry souls now. We were beyond redemption. However, we could at least attempt to stay out of trouble, even if it were for a little while.

"Come on, gentlemen." I tried my hardest to have my gritted teeth sound like motivation rather than excruciating pain twisting my insides. "We should probably remove ourselves from this situation if we don't want to spend the night in a prison."

"Gypsies hop aboard trains quite frequently," Sherlock spoke without a crack of his eyes. "Hoping off them isn't enough to send one to prison."

My body now towered over him. He couldn't see me, but already I felt stronger. My wounds would be patched up and we could get back to business. The thought of a bath was heaven in itself. If I couldn't solve the murder of symbols, I was at least going to take down Moriarty. "You're absolutely right," I said firmly. "They won't arrest us for being gypsies. It's the fact that we are actually a group of poor rabble-rousers from London with someone else's blood splattered across our chest that might worry them."

That seemed to do the trick. With a groan and a sputter of what sounded like blood and dust, Sherlock was back on his feet again and ready for whatever came his way. His eyes were darker than I remembered, but his skin was as pale as the snow sweeping the ground. Watching him wobble to his feet, I gathered how weak he really was. He was a trickster, and tricksters were good at hiding things for a while, but in the end they always came through. And Sherlock was weary. There was no one who could deny it. There was minor limping as he hopped from the train, but judging by his quick pace, he was either starving or on the verge of growing determination.

Sherlock began a speech. "We'll get to my brother's house and grab some dinner." _Well that answers my previous question._ He continued as I chuckled silently behind him. John had managed to catch up wearily, though he seemed to be the healthiest of all of us. "Once we've managed to catch up with our lack of energy, we'll have to start thinking of the peace summit."

"We won't get a night's rest first?" John asked through a heavy sigh. A bed was the sweetest thought to John Watson: more than his beloved Gladstone and more than his precious Mary. Oh, no. A bed would be just fine to cure his aching heart.

"There's no time," Sherlock implored. "We've already wasted enough when we got captured." Though Sherlock tried to sound disappointed, I saw through the act. The whole time, things had been happening in the order he wanted them to. We were supposed to get captured. He was supposed to get tortured. But why?

"No time?" I scoffed. Hiding my discovery was difficult. "Perhaps you could have avoided us getting caught easier than you think."

Sherlock stopped walking as we approached the edge of the forest. His head turned over his shoulder to get a better look at me. Instead of offering me that mischievous smirk that had become so familiar, a look of hesitation crossed his face. In fear of Watson finding out, his eyes did the speaking. _How did you know I planned it all?_

_It's not that hard, _my own eyes replied. He didn't seem to get the message. Or if he did, he kept his pain hidden. Without uttering a sound, he continued onwards through the woods. I knew in a moment that it was going to be a long journey. Not just through the forest and not just to James Moriarty. But a long journey between the twisted emotions of Sherlock Holmes and myself.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Mycroft did not live too far from the station. It was a trek through the snow, but that was about the only burden we encountered. A few stray animals watched our path grow, but they never meant to interfere. I kept my coat wrapped tightly around myself with my eyes fixated on my footprints. No one and nothing would bother me that way.

"These woods are beautiful," Simza said ahead of us. "The mountains are beautiful. How could a man plan such a horrible thing in a place like this?"

"He is not a man," Sherlock scoffed. "Il est le diable." The two of them continued with their French conversation. Eventually the throaty words became a blur in my head, creating background noise for the pounding of my heart.

I felt John approach me, knowing that he was also lost by their words. He was wearing a smile that seemed out of place in a land that seemed unreal. My eyes did the asking. What was he thinking? "Soon we'll be at Mycroft's and then the peace summit. If things go as planned, we'll go home and pretend this never happened."

He was right. That's what happened every time. We never discussed things once they ended and they ate away at us like a wound. "Maybe this time we should talk about it. This hasn't been like the other cases. This has changed everything." My eyes flickered towards the group ahead of us, specifically on Holmes. His back was hunched and his eyes moved in every which way. Normally, I could guess what was on his mind. Not any more. "This has changed some of us more than others."

John sighed and rubbed his forehead tiredly. His eyes were also fixated on the detective with concern lacing his pupils. "I fear he'll go mad. I fear he's already starting to."

"People always say Sherlock Holmes is mad."

"But he isn't, is he?" John growled. Any animosity towards his friend was a threat to him as well. "He's a genius. A bloody genius who tries too hard to make things right. People toss words about like they're nothing, but calling someone mad who tries to save humanity… In my opinion they're the creatures of madness. Not him. Not us."

I couldn't help but smile, though it seemed out of place. John Watson had always been my hero. Since day one, I couldn't imagine how someone was so close with Sherlock, but also had such control over him. And though Holmes was a genius, John was incredibly smart and just as adventurous. The life of a doctor was what he had planned, but it might not have been what he yearned for.

I let my thoughts linger in my own head while trying to comfort John verbally. "All I know is that this is going to end soon. We should focus on that. If we let ourselves think of the future, we might become too arrogant."

"You're right," he nodded. "If anything, we can't fail this." His anger disappeared, twisting into a look of unknowing. He repeated his words with trepidation. "We can't fail this."

I could only imagine the thoughts running through his head. What if we did fail? The world would break out into war. Asia would fight anyone who came near. America would win if they chose to fight and no matter who came near them, they would tear them to pieces. Britain might stand a chance against Eastern Europeans, but overall lives would be lost, history would be destroyed and the chaotic world that we already lived in would become manic. Unstoppable. Hatred would gush from the core of the Earth and suffocate our very existence.

The thoughts made my head spin and my stomach hurt, but I didn't have time to think on them very long. I was grateful when the small cottage beneath the mountainside came into our view as we approached the end of the forest. It looked horribly comforting. Every light was on to welcome us, forming a yellow smile against a frozen night.

"Here we are," Sherlock spoke up. "Swiss villa of my brother Mycroft. I recommend that you all keep your ears attuned, your eyes at attention and your smiles ready. My brother will not like you very much if you don't."

The game was back on. My back was pinned straight as if a new corset found its way upon me, and my shoulders were pulled back at attention. John was good at standing straight. No doubt his military days were to blame for that. Cold air brushed my face like the hand of death, warning me of something I had already realized moments before.

My voice shook as my threatening words blew out in an icy breath. "This is the beginning of the end."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The inside of Mycroft's home was just as expected to be. Elegant, yet somehow bohemian in relation to the red walls and the deep wood that bordered them, along with the odd collection of furniture that awaited us from the very threshold. And though it was not Mycroft who opened the door for our weary selves, we could hear him shouting at us just down the corridor.

"Join me, join me!" He sounded quite merry to have us all there. I suspected he didn't have many visitors in the outskirts of Switzerland.

"Always do, brother!" Sherlock responded with the widest grin he had given in weeks.

A voice shouted back. "I've got a pleasant meal awaiting you!" The clashing of silverware informed us all that he was not quite ready, but the thought of food made us giddy. I watched as John, Simza and Tamas followed their sense of smell.

I myself was going to follow them, but was startled by the polite, old butler that was taking my coat away from me. He left without a word, as quiet and stealthy as he had come. "That's Stanley," Sherlock clarified. "I'm sure you recall."

I remembered him briefly from the Chichester home, but he never ceased to amaze me. Such loyalty was admired. After kicking the remnants of snow from my boots, something soft grasped my upper arm. I looked up to meet Sherlock's sorrowful eyes, their expression not matching his vibrant greeting just moments before. "Are you alright?" I was flustered by his sudden appearance and the realization that we were now alone. "You must be exhausted. Surely a bath must be set up-"

"I've been a horrible man to you, Renadale." Bitterness trickled through Sherlock's words and into his eyes until it reached his whole body and twisted it into a slump against the wall. "You do not know the things I have done. The things I have seen."

"Of course I do," I reassured. "I've been there with you. Through thick and thin, I have seen the same as you and shared the same senses." He gazed at me from the corner of his eye with his back still slouched lazily against the wall. "Do you understand me?"

He waited for a moment to reply. The answer he gave was not the answer I was expecting, nor the one I had hoped for. "I have never understood you, Miss Adkins."

Miss Adkins. Were we travelling back in time?

With a defiant step towards him, I aimed myself into his line of vision. If he wanted to look the other way, I would follow his watch. There was no avoiding me. "How dare you," I spat out without fear of his remarks. "Where is this even coming from? You have the nerve to say that to my face after you claim I am the only thing that makes sense in your life."

"I will not allow myself to hurt you any further." His voice grew smaller as he spoke, but my frustration did not tend to his weaknesses.

"The fact that you could even plan these events is monstrous." I was going back to our eye conversation in the woods. The fact that he knew what was going to happen infuriated me. "You could have at least told me in advance… given me times to prepare my emotions."

"It had to be real," he explained. "Moriarty had to believe that I was the fish. He had to see me weak. You were my only way."

Though we were both injured, a sharp shove could not help but pass through my hand and onto his shoulders. I watched as he grabbed himself in pain, the age becoming noticeable on his face with every drop of stamina that flew away from him. "My tears were not there for you to use blindly." I recalled what he had said to me in Paris. "You told me we were partners."

His eyes shot up in horror. "Renadale, this does not change things. You have helped me more than you know and of course we are still partners…"

I could sense the growing frustration within him. The last thing he wanted to do was insult me, hurt me, and cause me pain. But he was doing so and it was clearly visible on my wrinkling face. "What?" I grunted, sensing his fear. "This wasn't part of your plan?"

My feet started carrying me away. I was quite content with the way my conversation would have ended: fierce, headstrong and very obviously a better detective than he took me for. But it did not end that way. Sherlock's hand flung me back to face him. Without a word, I watched time fly by. His smooth skin became hard and scarred. His cheek was cut forever, and wrinkles dug themselves across his hands and his face. Blackness circled his right eye like a reminder of his inability. His body became weaker as his mind buckled from the stress of James Moriarty. He was changed. I would never have him the way I found him.

But, my goodness, did I love him.

And my goodness, I was horrible at hiding it.

"You forgive me," he breathed out. Surely my face read as passionate, though I could not think of it as I stared at the growing tears. This time they were not upon my face, but the face of Sherlock Holmes. I had reduced the man to near weeping, which seemed far worse of a crime than any of James Moriarty's. "Please tell me that you do. I know this must come across as pure evil, but you must know that it was all for the sake of the game."

"You cannot use me as your chess piece-"

"You have never been a piece," he muttered. "You have always been a queen. My saving piece. The one who helps me win." His hands knotted themselves in my hair, pulling our foreheads together with heated breath. "Do not fall from me. Stay with me. There is nothing more obvious than the fact that I need you."

"You need me to win the game with Moriarty?" My whisper was planted dangerous close to his ear.

"Not with Moriarty," he sighed. "With myself."

I thought back to what he had said before. _I have never been a good man. _That might have been true. He had never cooked for me, offered to rub my feet, or donated to charity. He had never bothered to give Gladstone a bath, send Mary a wedding gift, or even toss Missus Hudson a tip. He might not have been good at socializing and he was far too openly critical when he disapproved. No, he was not a good man.

He had saved the lives of Londoners many times before I had met him. He solved cases that almost lead to the destruction of the British parliament. He travelled through foul sewers just to put the minds of parents' who lost their loved ones at ease. He gave up everything to chase down a man who was aiming to destroy the world. That one wasn't yet finished, but if he won, he would certainly not be a good man.

"Sherlock Holmes…" My lips were unafraid to caress his ear. I could feel the familiar heat and ache between our bodies. Over a year had passed since we had first met, and our lives were changed forever. "My father always told me not to marry a good man," I teased. His hands travelled down my neck sensually, his fingers moist from the body heat we shared in the small entrance. "He told me that I was to marry a great man. A strong man. A man with conviction and sense." Sherlock Holmes could not seem to focus on my words. I felt his hands travel further towards my hips. His fingers spread themselves across my waist. "You might just be that man."

He stopped moving for a moment to watch my lips. After I cracked a silent smile, he allowed himself that one simple pleasure. The mischievous grin. "How are we to know if that man might not present himself later?"

"Well. I've done my research. I'm a better detective than you might suppose."

"And?" He teased as his rough lips skimmed the surface of my own. "Your conclusion?"

"You're better than that man."

"Come see me tonight." My heart froze in its cage. It wasn't often that I trusted the sincerity in Sherlock's words, but this time it was clear.

My mouth fumbled with the words forming in it. "I… Well, I … of course will come and see you. Tonight, that is. To talk. Or…"

"To talk," Sherlock jutted in. "I simply want to talk."

"Of course. Naturally."

"That is, unless you had other intentions?"

"I'm not the one who makes plans ahead of time."

"Touché, but all will be explained tonight."

My brows scrunched towards him. I could feel the green in them shooting emerald blows into his soul. "You'd best get a proper speech ready, because most of the time when you explain things, everything becomes far more complicated than it was before."

Sherlock's tired face suddenly flickered to life. I watched as his lips curled into a smirk, teasing at my emotions. "When I told you that I loved you, it made our relationship more complicated?"

"In a way!" I shouted. He wasn't going to beat me at my own game. "You said it while throwing me off of a train! Now, what do you think you're doing?" My hands began to brush his coat. Trying to make him look decent was not in the cards for that evening, but I tried my hardest. "Your brother is waiting for you."

"He is," Sherlock replied, tucking my curls behind my ears. "You go before me. I fear I must freshen up a bit."

I did as I was told, passing a tired Tamas on the way. He bid me a goodnight as his tear-stained eyes led him up the stairs and out of my vision. I didn't have enough time to ask if he was alright, but Mycroft's shouting pulled my attention away. I joined the rest of the group at Mycroft's heavily set, ancient table.

"The fact is that it's going to happen whether we like it or not." Mycroft Holmes made sure that his opinion on John Watson was made clear through the sighing of his voice. He found him stupid. Quite stupid indeed. "Everyone has already arrived! Although these gentlemen may be talking peace, believe me, they are readying their armies at home. To cancel the summit now would be tenement to war."

I groaned through a bite of potatoes. "Tell us something we haven't already found out." Hearing such dreadful news come from Mycroft's mouth made things certain. He had insider access to everything concerning politics.

"The telegram… wasn't it clear?" John's anger was mixed with genuine confusion. We had warned Mycroft from inside the weapons base. We had risked our lives to escape that place, and still there was a peace summit going on! John had every right to be upset as I was quickly joining him.

"We have double the security, Sir." Caruthers tried to make up for things.

Simza certainly wasn't going to have any of his nonsense. "Oh!" She said mockingly, cocking her head back and forth and speaking through a mouthful of chicken. "Double the security? That's comforting!"

"You don't understand the delicacy of this situation." Mycroft clearly had the upper hand here. His suit was neatly pressed while we all looked like vagabonds. I was certain that he was right about everything, but I didn't want to believe it. "I passed the telegram onto my superiors, but they're the ones that brought Moriarty into the peace process in the first place! He has positioned himself brilliantly. He's one of our foremost intellectuals, he's a personal friend of-"

"Personal friend of the prime minister, yes we all know that!" John cut the elder Holmes off with a sarcastic wave of his hand. Things were not going as well as expected, but I didn't want to argue. I liked both sides of the party, and truthfully I wasn't certain if we _could_ stop things or not.

"_I_ believe you! But where's your evidence?" Mycroft whispered dramatically.

John leaned forward, making sure that Mycroft saw what he said very clearly. "He's too _good_ to leave evidence. He doesn't leave loose ends."

Sherlock came stumbling into the room with something into his hands. Simza perked up, pleased to see that he had finally managed to find his way around a five-roomed house. His hair was combed and his suit jacket on. He did look a bit more elegant, despite the black and blue skin surrounding his eye. "Oh!" She snickered. "He's alive." We all watched as Sherlock pressed a golden tube up to his lips and sucked in, as if he were trying to inflate himself. My head fell to the side as I got a closer view of the device.

My inner thoughts trickled from my mouth. "Such a strange machine. I can't imagine what it's for… Why was I never a good inventor?"

"Sherly, put that down!" Mycroft warned from the other side of the table.

"What_ is_ this contraption?" He asked breathlessly. "May I have it? It is most invigorating-"

I stood up quickly, peeling the device from his hands. "No, I think I'll take it off of you…"

"That's my private and personal supply of oxygen," Mycroft explained carefully. I fiddled about with it in my hands. There was a pump to let air in and a perfect ring where the lips would sit. All of those moments Sherlock had taken my breath away. All I ever needed was that machine. "And you're not to touch it." Mycroft's eyes drove into my skin. "Any of you."

I carried it over to the other side of the dining room where Sherlock and Stanley gathered near the tea table. Mycroft continued to break our spirits as he spoke behind me, assuring that there was nothing we could do to stop things. I set the contraption on the tray, watching as Stanley carried it outside of the room.

"That could be useful some day," I whispered to Holmes.

Sherlock nodded. "More useful than one could imagine."

Mycroft's voice continued from the table. "The fact is… We don't really know what he's planning."

"It won't be another bomb," Simza grumbled.

John agreed. "No, there won't be another bomb."

"It doesn't make sense," she continued.

Once again, John corresponded. "Why would he attack all the nations?"

I tossed my own opinions into the pot. "He's not begrudging everyone."

Sherlock's voice uplifted over our own. "It could be an assassination. By a lone gunman with a syringe." His eyes were so obviously fixated upon the gypsy woman that there was no denying what he intended.

Simza dropped her hand away from her face in shock. "Rene."

"Unfortunately, yes."

Her face suddenly twisted. I recognized it instantly. It was the same look I had worn just an hour before. "You knew," she gasped.

He quickly cleared the air before another woman could claw away at him. "I had my suspicions, but having seen who is attending, I'm now certain." Simza could not hide her anger. It was flaming in her cheeks, as red as the skirt beneath her.

"Well!" Mycroft said rather perkily. "At least we know who to look out for."

"Rene will be the evidence," John said with a bit of a happier tone. Now he had proof against Moriarty. Now everything we had worked for was coming together.

"If we can find him and stop him, we will perhaps not only save his life, but prevent the collapse of Western civilization." Sherlock's face became smug. The idea pleased him. It pleased us all. I was not in the mood for my world to end just yet. "No pressure."

"My brother," Simza continued. "He's been lost for so long. How could I not have found him? How could he be the same man he was before?" She was not asking anyone in particular, but the palm of her hands. She rattled off something in French with sorrowful tones, as if her heart was breaking. A tear trickled along the edge of her eye, but she did not let it fall. "If only I had paid more attention. What if he is lost to me?"

Mycroft laughed as if it were a preposterous idea. "You cannot blame yourself for your brother falling in league with a criminal mastermind. We all have dark parts of ourselves that only come out when we are older. For example, I realized that I had a fascination with hunting, whereas the idea never used to occur to me. It's quite cruel, when you put it in perspective."

John and I shot one another a glance. Both of us knew the helpfulness of the Holmes brothers, and this was not one of those times.

"Keep your family close," John attempted to soothe her. "That way when they are lost, they always have a chance at returning. View this as a blessing. This might be your chance to save Rene."

I couldn't help but be bothered by John's words. Keep your family close. I knew I should have been comforting Simza, but my own life was eating at my thoughts. Was _I _keeping my family close? Or was I creating a new old? My mother was alone in London. Her nights were cold and dark. She cooked for one. She set her table for one. And yet, she didn't have to. I threw that life away like a tattered handkerchief. Like it was nothing.

I began to feel sick. Selfishness was the only thing that I could blame it on. I hugged myself for support, but nothing was working. My head was spinning with the image of her. She had been alone without my father for so long and still she was weak. I was all she had left. And now she didn't even have that.

"Excuse me," I said suddenly. There was nothing in there that could calm me. Everyone watched with curious eyes, but no one asked what the matter was. I needed to get away from the tension and the sudden guilt that poured over me. My boots carried me to the kitchen.

When I finally made my way inside, there was comfort in knowing I was alone. The candles had been blown out after the last plate found its demise and nothing but the darkness welcomed my entrance. Outside a crow squawked, reminding me of the ones that lingered in the London streets.

The shaking of my hands was enough to worry me into silence. I pressed myself against the counter, taking deep breaths and trying with every fiber to not recall those distant memories. Snow was falling gently outside of the window as the night slipped on her black dress. My own voice tormented me as I tried to focus on the trees. _If the air is fresh and the sky is open, why do I feel like I'm suffocating? _

"Renadale?"

Sherlock Holmes was watching me from the doorway. When I showed him my pale face, he knew it was time for concern and quietly shut the door behind him. His feet did not take long to reach my side, but his hands were not so quick to comfort. "Are you ill?" He inquired.

I shook my head as the knotted curls flew about like a bird.

"Something in there sparked a memory," he whispered. "Your mother and father."

"How did you…?"

"It wasn't hard to pick up on," he began to mumble. "Your state was weary, therefore allowing an excess of emotions to swell within you while meanwhile destructing your barrier to _hide _said emotions. Now, though you've gone through many tragedies in your life, none seemed to have quite an effect on you like the death of your father. Something someone said at the table must have triggered a fire within you, causing your arms to retreat to a rather childlike position in which one hand began to nervously rub the opposite elbow." My eyes were darting about the floor like mad as I tried to catch the courage to look at him. He quickly realized his rambling and stopped short. "I suppose I'm trying to express my concern for your general wellbeing."

"I'm alright." My reply was far too quick to be plausible. Sherlock stared me down in the darkened room; his eyes as sharp as the knives beside me. "It wasn't so much about my father. It is guilt and her tight hands. She's suffocating me."

"You cannot patronize yourself about leaving your mother back home." Sherlock knew my fears without my lips ever having to express them. Perhaps that was partially why I loved him. "Though we can try to not feel guilty about these situations, I can understand that it is not easy to avoid the emotions that come with them."

Though I wanted to ask how he knew, my tongue was bit. He had never mentioned his parents and Mycroft never seemed to bring it up. I remembered a photograph in Mycroft's Chichester home of the whole family, but their stoic faces and blank eyes made me question who they really were. I only got the chance to understand one.

Knowing that times were changing, and our worlds were tilting with the upcoming peace summit, asking a question was the least of my concerns. I let my thoughts fire away into the open. "What were your parents like? Are they still alive? Do you think of them often?" One thought suddenly became three and I cut myself off in fear of offense.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. The signs of nervousness that were previously evident in myself were now visible upon him. His eyebrows rose as if he had never been asked such a question, and his arms folded themselves shakily across his chest. He spoke with ease, despite his stature. "My mother's name was Violet. My father's name was Siger. My father worked through many professions, first for the British East India Company, then a partial criminal for a short while…" He shot me a cheeky wink. "You wonder where I get my taste for adventure. Then he moved on to a government position before he died. As for my mother, she didn't do much, though she was a bright woman. I often encouraged her to use her talents, but it wasn't easy to be a female scientist during the time of my youth, nor is it still." He seemed genuinely distressed by this fact as his eyes drooped and lost themselves to a memory.

"Is your mother alive?" The question scared me, though I feared the answer more.

"No, of course not." His certainty was possibly to blame on the fact that he had never mentioned them before. Perhaps he had wanted to. Perhaps he had learned what he knew from them and had wanted to make them proud. Now they were no longer here. I didn't want to ask what happened to them, for fear of striking a bad chord.

I nodded my head slowly with a free sample of a smile. He took it willingly. "Thank you for telling me."

"Any time you would like to know more, you may ask." His smile wore a bit of sadness within it and I could see that he was not entirely whole without them. I couldn't decide if the love he had for his parents was so painful that he could not speak of them, or if it had never been there at all. But after a moment of staring into his downcast face, I knew it was the first. "I have never told a soul."

"You've never told anyone about your parents?"

"John has asked once or twice, but I never gave him any details. I told him of my grandmother, who was the sister of the French painter Vernet. But I never told him that it was she who taught me French and she who taught me to dance." His eyes were bright enough to light the room. "He knew that my other ancestors were squires along the British countryside, with a few scattered about in France, but I never told him how I used to write stories about them and pretend they were heroes."

"Why have you never told him?"

Sherlock Holmes gave me a stern look. His jaw was firmly set to the point where I thought it might crack. "Because I didn't want to remember. I used to have someone worth fighting for. And then they perished, and I was alone. My brother had his own life to lead and I had nothing but my mangled thoughts and the hollowness of my own solitude."

"But, you didn't have to be that way," I chuckled lightly. "And surely you meeting Watson changed things."

He scoffed as if I failed to see. "You cannot change who you are. I cannot stop my mind from tormenting me into madness each time a serial case appears. People see my deductions and my knowledge as a talent or a skill, but sometimes it grabs me so tight that I feel as if I'm…" He stopped to take in the dusty air around him. "Suffocating," he finally breathed out. "I can't remember what it's like to feel normal. I wear it like a badge, but sometimes I fear it is killing me."

My hands found his upper arms where they rested comfortably for a moment. Sherlock finally pulled away and instead brought me into his arms. His heart was pounding like a heavy snowfall against the windowpane. I glanced outside to see if I was mishearing things, but the night was still and peaceful. "Watson cares for you just as much as I. Perhaps we care in different ways, but he asks the same questions because he worries about you." I tried to explain what I didn't know. The only thing I wanted was to make him calm. As I spoke, I could feel his heartbeat softening. "You don't ever have to tell another soul, but I promise that your life is safe with me. And you can always fight for your parents. Losing my father made me realize that he can never truly be gone."

Sherlock did not respond. For a long time I waited, but there was nothing. He might have disagreed. With a scientific mind like his, he may have just seen the dead as simply that. Rotting flesh without conscience and senses. He also might have been playing with the idea that humans _do_ have souls and that fighting for them could never be a bad thing, even if they were not there to properly thank you.

He kissed my forehead slowly as if to thank me before heading back into the dining room. Somehow I was more relaxed. My body rested against the countertop and I cracked open the window to let in a slight breeze. The wind brushed my curls behind my ears, like the soft hand of a nurturing mother. The wind's voice seemed to whisper to me as I shut my eyes.

"_You are strong, Renadale." _

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

**I know the chapters are a bit dull, but I don't want to rush the story because I need to wait for the next film to come out. Hope you guys liked it though.**

**Please review? I'm really itching to hear from you guys. **

**It's been a bit lonely on this review page. ):**

**xxxMistroxxx**


	20. The Flames of Snow

**Hey everyone! Thanks for waiting for the next chapter. I've been really busy finishing up the end of my first year at University. I'm not even done yet, and considering I have a politics exam coming up, this is probably a bad idea… At any rate, I've been craving this story and needed to get back to it. So voila! **

**PLEASE REVIEW. I'm really nervous about this chapter and I want to know what all of you think. Xxoo I write for you, remember? So please write for me.**

**Please go and check out the BEAUTIFUL artwork that Toxic-Mai-Panda made in honor of my second story, "Poisoned Dreams" - the photo is on my homepage and it's blindingly wonderful, so make sure to go and take a look! This chapter is dedicated to her. Hopefully the emotions in this chapter reflect some similar ones in her drawing. x3 x3 **

**Yours truly,**

**Mistro**

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Time was catching up to us. In the back of my mind, I knew that we had little of it, but I could not comprehend what that would mean. When time is scare, the mind does not think properly and that is when it should be thinking most carefully.

The bedroom given to me was small, but quaint. The room didn't need to be big. I doubted I would sleep that night when we returned, if we returned at all. All I could focus on was that my body was pumping pure adrenaline… the human Renadale was disappearing into an anxious creature. Pacing the floors, not a candle lit in sight… where had I disappeared to?

Mycroft had kindly prepared dresses for Simza and myself. We left to our chambers after the meal in order to make ourselves more presentable. Perhaps that was why I was so nervous. The last time I had tried looking decent was the day I met Edward Brettingham and that had not ended quite as anticipated. A glamorous Renadale was sure to bring about tragedy. A fashionable Renadale was a dangerous one. It was when I was plain and kept hidden in the shadows that the world turned normally. In fact, I was starting to prefer it that way.

Despite my fear for the upcoming evening, the dress was hardly a disappointment. Mycroft's wealth truly showed in the splendor of my outfit, particularly since it would most likely be worn once. Though it took me half of an hour to assemble, once it was situated, it seemed as if it were a fitting puzzle piece to my bodice.

"Splendid," I whispered while catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. "Such grand material." I refused to flame any of the candles, so my only source of light was the moonlight seeping across the room. The darkness calmed me, and heaven knows I needed calming that night. However, the moon's rays were bright enough to view my dress in the elongated mirror hanging on the wall near the door.

The shoulders were bare aside from a thin strap holding the bustle up. Sleeves hung loosely on my upper arms and the vines they were fashioned after matched the curl of my hair quite delicately. The neck swooped sharply down and then back up again, rather like the letter 'v' with only a minor amount of cleavage. Normally this would have frightened me, but the dress was so magnificent that I could not complain. Tightly, it hugged my waist, and then fell to the floor in a sweeping wave of silk. The light green hue of it all echoed my eyes, and for once I felt beautiful. Not beautiful in the sense of worth, but beautiful in looks. And though it sounds haughty, complimenting myself on my appearance was an entirely new feeling. The opportunity was too rare to pass.

The only obscurity to my appearance was the bandage on the back of my neck, but Mycroft had seen to a flesh hued one that diminished its appearance. The pain was receding rather quickly, though stress and a quick movement was enough to send it soaring back.

_Knock. Knock._

"Yes?" My eyes pulled away from my vanity and towards the sealed door. I watched the handle turn slowly, waiting for the visitors to make themselves known. "It's quite alright; I'm fully dressed. I'll only need a minute or so to put on my powder- Oh, hello."

Sherlock closed the door gently as if he were keeping a secret locked in with him. I eyed him quizzically, too focused on his shy manner to linger on his dapper appearance. "Is everything alright?" His question was asked without a gaze in my direction.

"I think I should be asking you that."

Sherlock's eyes momentarily locked with mine, but a glimpse of the dress overtook his vision. It seemed to consume his attention. "You look marvelous, Miss Adkins."

Flattery was well received and reciprocated. My eyes glanced over his suit. Black and snugly pressed to his body, one could tell the well-made figure that lay beneath the tuxedo. A smooth, white bowtie hugged his neck, but the main eye-catcher was the red sash draped smoothly across his torso. He looked like a proper English gentleman; something I had never seen him appear as through all of our days. "I can say the same to you, Mister Holmes."

"It's one thing to look good physically," he mumbled with a heavy fall onto the bed. "The issue is acting like you're someone important to the world."

A smile spread across my face. "Well, that shouldn't be difficult for you."

Sherlock did not take the compliment. His gloved hands found themselves rubbing his eyes with a heavy groan. My feet took me closer to him, the sound of my dress against the wooden floor being the only expression for worry I could muster up. "Renadale, I need to speak to you about our discussion earlier."

"I can tell it has become distressing to you."

His face was powdered over, but the bruises remained. When his head turned towards me and his eyes caught the blue clouds, he looked not much more than a child who needed comfort. "I worry that my decisions have become more important to me than when I first planned them."

"Whatever do you mean?"

He moved over, allowing space for me beside him. Our shoulders pressed against one another. His hand reached for mine in minute protection, his skin suddenly softer and more familiar than on the train. "You knew of things that I had planned, but a time has come in which you cannot predict the outcome."

A minor smirk appeared on my pink lips. "I don't think I was ever supposed to find out. Sometimes I think the case I'm working on is actually about your strange moods instead of Moriarty."

He disregarded my teasing comment as stress seeped its way into the wrinkles on his face. "That is the issue," he sighed. "You weren't supposed to know anything, but sometimes you are far too clever for your own good."

That was probably the first and last time that I would receive such a compliment. "Sherlock, what's bothering you really? We've made it so far with our sanity and lives still in tact. We have Moriarty on the edge… literally!" A chuckle passed my lips, but Sherlock did not respond. He only seemed to become more flustered. "Surely you're not afraid now? When we are so close to the end?"

There was hesitation on his mouth. I watched his chest flutter in anticipation, the unspoken words dripping towards the tip of his tongue. "Renadale, since you have come into my life, I am always afraid. Afraid that I will lose you."

My hand gripped itself more strongly around his. I watched as his eyes danced towards the flowered walls. What was he thinking? "You're not going to lose me, Sherlock." When I spoke, something did not sound confident in my voice. It was as if my body knew a secret about its own protection that my mind could not comprehend.

"The first case I worked with you on, a man set out to kill you due to connections that ultimately linked to me." Sherlock's voice was as bitter as poison and as sharp as a blade. "I hardly even knew you, but when the targets led to you it seemed that nothing in the world would be the same. It was as if I was bound to you. If I did not save you, my life would be worthless."

"You have never expressed such feelings."

"I do not make it a notion to express many feelings in general."

I made sure my voice was steady as I replied. "I never doubted you for a minute. You were always going to save me. You'd risk your own life for John and I, even for those you barely know. The pressure you put on yourself is enormous." His head continued to face away from me, so I snatched his chin tightly in my hand and let our eyes meet. "I will never ask you to look after me… The act of wishing is a selfish desire. And yet, the only time I have ever done it was when I hoped you could see me differently. I would convince myself that when you stared at me, it was merely amusement. I lied to myself when you began to love me because how could I receive such affection when I held none of it for my own soul? Sherlock Holmes, you have set out to save my physical being in every case that we have been in. And if one day you fail, you must know that you have saved my soul a thousand times over. To me, that is all that matters." My voice grew small and fizzled out like a flame when I stopped speaking. His eyes were wide and wet, the secrets incomprehensible behind them. Something was wrong, but it was my not my job to ask him. I had a feeling I would soon figure out.

Sherlock did not reply with words. He whispered something as his forehead pressed against mine, but the beating of my heart had drowned it out and my throat was too sealed to ask for a repeat. I will never know what Sherlock Holmes whispered to me on that night.

What he felt… that was another story. As my heart continued to make its way up my throat, the feeling of a kiss silenced every beat and hum inside of me. With my eyes wide, it was like being kissed for the very first time. As his lips parted and sealed against mine, the taste of him lingering on my tongue, I could feel that heated sensation making its way throughout my body. A visible shudder erupted across my skin and his hands gripped my arms to stop it. It was as if I could hear him saying,

_I have protected you, my darling. Do not be fearful. I have never aimed to hurt you._

Though I felt foolish, tears began to sting the bottom of my eyes. I knew it would be a disaster for the powder and blush, but something was overwhelming inside of me; a realization that I could not live without this man. I could not breathe properly without him, nor think, nor sleep, nor dream. He had become my dreams. He was the one calmed me and set me let the bird of my heart free from its cage. It frightened me to love him. Such emotions controlled you and evaporated all sense. If he was not there, I could not be myself. And though it sounded like dependency, I couldn't help but believe he felt the same.

The hands that were holding my arms moved towards my back. Slowly, like one of my inventions, his fingers elegantly peeled at the strings on my dress. A startled gasp bubbled up in my lips, but he ended it with another kiss. My vision began to blur. Before I could concentrate on sane thoughts as opposed to passion, the top layer of my dress had fallen from my torso and was limply lying across my waist. Sherlock opened his eyes momentarily to survey me in my undergarments. I blushed, though not much could be seen beneath my chemise and corset. No movement was made to caress me. I could see the embarrassment sprinkling a red flush across his cheeks, tormenting him with something he thought he could never have.

I knew that it was wrong. Everything was happening quickly and without a second thought. And yet, as I snatched his hands and placed them carefully over the strings of my corset, everything in my mind told me that it was right. We were not married, nor did I expect us to ever be, but he loved me. Why couldn't that be enough? My face twisted in confusion as my thoughts battled one another in my head. "Renadale." His voice took me off guard. "This is unmerited." His thick brows scrunched together. His voice was telling him something different than his heart. He had always been a man to follow his brain… but had he been choosing the wrong conscience his whole life? Was it time for his heart to have a say? "I am living in poverty with my own thoughts."

"I love you," I whispered. "To me, that is all that matters."

"Something inside of me attracts me to the unfamiliarity of you." Sherlock's face twisted with dishonor. The warmth of his hands began to slip through the corset's fabric as he continued to rest them atop it. "If I continue, I will not be able to restrain…" Whether it was from fear, excitement, or hatred for himself, he could not finish his sentence. One again, a mystery of the night appeared.

I silenced him with a deep kiss. As it continued, his fingers greedily tugged at the strings on my chest. With a firm tug, the torso collapsed from my body and flew to the floor beneath us. Sherlock's slender torso pushed me down onto my back. His arms rested beside my head as he leaned over me with shock dedicated to his own actions. "It's alright," I murmured. "I trust you."

I did not know if it was his first time. Judging by his nerves, I may have said yes. But that may have been due to the heated desire lingering between us for over a year. And then the thought of Irene flew into my brain. A beautiful, American woman… She had mentioned before of a hotel they used to meet in. And why would they meet? For a single cup of coffee and a nighttime of innocent flirtations? Somehow I doubted it.

The thought did not bother me. As he stared down into my face, the tears that lingered dangerously on the edge of his eyes reminded me that I was not alone in my worries. Though we were both afraid, it was what we wanted.

My hands lightly shrugged off his black jacket. Afraid that it might get wrinkled, I set it gently on the floor beside us, setting the sleeves in an 'x' formation across the front. His bowtie was far trickier, but with a swift shove, it snapped from his neck. It might have been broken, but somehow removing it was all that seemed to satisfy me. His sash was far easier to remove and soon there was only two pieces left on his torso. In a moment's time, his chest would be bare.

I could not comprehend what would come afterwards.

I let the thoughts disperse from my head as I removed the white vest and undershirt. Though the room was dark, I could see the powerful muscles that dispersed themselves easily across his body. His arms were particularly strong, and his smooth chest allowed for his stomach muscles to shine. I think I stared for too long as a fit of laughter began to erupt from his lips. "What?" The color could not stray from my cheeks.

"You've seen me without a shirt on before. More than once, if I recall correctly." His smile was tormenting.

"I think this situation constitutes for different emotions."

"Perhaps you're right," he said teasingly. With both hands, he slid the rest of my torso clothing away. I gasped in shock, my arms quickly covering my exposed breasts. "Forgive me," he mumbled, suddenly serious. "That was too hasty."

I shook my head, trying to express that it was all right. The cold wind coming the open window stung my bare flesh, but somehow it was refreshing. It cooled down the burning nerves that spread fire across every body part. My neck stung a minor amount, but I tried my hardest to ignore its pain and continue on. Quietly, I let my arms fall. Sherlock's eyes remained on my face, however, as if reading my eyes was the only thing he truly wished for.

We did not speak after that. His fingers silently pulled the rest of my clothing past my hips and onto the floor. I continued to cover myself as he removed his trousers and belt, but the shaking of his hands was entirely noticeable as the metal rattled. His body pressed itself against mine after a moment or two, the heat of his skin making my vision blur and my mind disappear. I was lost into him.

His fingers quietly trailed over my arms, my chest, my stomach, my hips, and my legs. His eyes followed alongside it, as if viewing me was the most magnificent discovery he had ever been rewarded with. His lips pressed against my neck, and for a moment I could feel his wet cheek. His tears were shed not for grief and not for joy, but perhaps for guilt. All I could do was cradle his cheeks in my hands to tell him it was fine by me.

I cannot give details of everything. My mind escapes me in moments such as that, and the overwhelming confusion, joy, and lust that consumed me made time go fast and made my thoughts slip. I remember feeling something harden against me, the warmth and solidity of it making me nervous. My mother had spoken to me once on the subject, but hearing such vivid mannerisms made me uncomfortable and I retreated to my room. I wish I had listened.

His hands caressed my skin as our lips met over and over. My body began to grow moist as sweat covered my skin. As I felt the hardness once again, but this time closer to my secret area, I finally realized how badly I was shaking. I had been shaking the entire time, but I knew what it would come to. The desire to not turn back consumed me.

However, Sherlock fought it off. I could feel himself weaken as his arms collapsed beside my ears and his torso tumble gently atop mine. His eyes continued to wetten, their brown jewels drowning in a flowing, dark river. I stared at him silently for a moment and then proceeded to remove his weight. The bed covers were used to hide my bare bodice; a bodice that shook like a spooked horse. He took little notice of my discouragement, as he was intertwined in his own regrets.

The moonlight kept swimming in. I thought that my evening would turn out differently. I thought that Sherlock Holmes might take the most important thing in my life. And yet, if he did that, the world would not be the same. Our lives would be at risk of the possibility of a child. We would have to married; a process Sherlock was unsure of. I would not be able to continue inventing as a hobby, but instead find a real occupation. Sherlock would be forced to stop his detecting. As I lay in that bed on the wintery eve in Mycroft's cottage, the irrational thoughts became startlingly logical.

"Do not feel shame," I whispered to him. "Nothing occurred."

"It might have."

"'Might' is not a word of certainty."

Sherlock's back was towards me. His only response was a ruffle of his head as he pushed his bare self from the covers. I watched in silence as he slipped his clothing back on, the wrinkles hardly noticeable. His hand snatched the numerous pieces of my dress from the floor. Without looking at me, he set them on the bed, lit a single candle and made his way as quietly and swiftly from the room as when he had entered it.

It was not what I wanted. His leaving was not what I had planned as he kissed me. And yet, my life was constantly unpredictable and confusing. In my soul, I knew that I should not have been terribly disappointed. He had wanted me, that was true. But he was a good man, a decent man, and therefore wanted to wait. Where was the shame in that?

And though these thoughts comforted me against the chill wind snipping at my arms, the tears that fell from my eyes led a pathway straight to my crumbling heart.

~.~.~.~.~.~

We were gathered in the lobby of Mycroft's house at nearly twenty minutes until nine. Watson alone stood beside me as the others continued to brush themselves up in their chambers. I had tried my hardest to remove the redness from my swollen eyes, but it was clear that something had upset me as the pink hue lingered around my temples. Or perhaps it was the beating of my aching heart that continued to torment me.

"Has he seen you?" Watson said calmly, his loving eyes fixated upon my drooped face.

I nodded. It was all that I could manage.

Watson did not ask further questions. His eyes scanned my body, watching it shake every few minutes and then stiffen itself back up. Somehow, I think he might have guessed what had happened. And part of me believed that he would not assume such drastic measures were reached. Whatever he believed, I never found out. He gripped my hand tightly in the empty corridor, sending me silent reflections of love and comfort. They were what I needed, but my body could not find solace. I continued replying Sherlock and I's last moment in my mind. He had left without so much as a word or a glance. Did he love me? He had not said so. Perhaps he was realizing that things were a mistake.

My knees grew weak at the sudden thought.

"You have become dear to me, Rena." Watson's voice took me by surprise in the echoing hall. "Far dearer than you can probably imagine yourself to be. I feel as if you do not give yourself enough credit for how wonderful you have been."

A sad smile trickled across my face. It hurt to wear it and somehow it tugged my tears back towards the edge of my eyes. My words were irrelevant, though they spoke what crossed my mind. "You are lucky to be married, John Watson."

His head jerked more noticeably in my direction. "Married? Marriage is not what gets me though my life, Rena. It is friends like you and Sherlock who somehow have an effect on me, though I consider Mary closest to my heart." We stayed silent for a while. I continued to linger on how wonderful the idea of marriage might be while Watson attempted to decipher my thoughts. "Does this have anything to do with Sherlock?"

My head shook desperately back and forth. He could not know of the events that occurred. He could not know that as each minute passed and each memory of Sherlock's hesitation consumed me, I felt weaker inside. "It hasn't anything to do with anyone."

"Rena-"

"I'm doing quite well." My grin became even firmer, stretching itself out into a straight line rather than an actual beam of happiness. "When have you ever seen me upset?"

Watson's brow rose playfully. "Shall I list them in alphabetical or chronological order?"

"Save your list," I mumbled. "You'll be adding to it soon."

The others soon joined us by the door. I was thankful, as it forced my demeanor to become even more solidified and unchangeable. Simza looked as radiant as ever in her maroon dress. It was triple the size of her others, and although her dark features echoed those of a gypsy woman, her sudden femininity could easily pass her off as a noble lady to those who did not know her. Sherlock looked the same as when I had seen him earlier, but with a fresh coat of powder over his nose and another layer of gel across his hair. And perhaps a jacket of regret weighing down his shoulders.

"Shall we be off?" Sherlock's voice sounded chipper, as if he were ready for it all to be over. And yet no one could deny the sheer terror that lingered somewhere behind each syllable. It was terror of the unknown. His eyes met mine momentaril as if to share a thought with me. I quickly turned my head in order to let my heart settle itself.

"Quickly," Simza encouraged. "Tonight is the night I will be reunited with my brother."

"And this will be the night that leads me to my wife," John smirked.

I shrugged lazily. "In reality, I'm rather looking forward to the alcohol."

And with that being the final note, the steep hillside of the mountains soon become our crumbling companions.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

**Sorry again for the short, not too inclusive chapter once again. I just wanted to let you know that I'm trying to update small quantities, because this story only has about three chapters left and I'm hoping to write the next story after the new film comes out… However, since there hasn't been a release date for that… it can be a bit scary.**

**The next story will be original and the last one in the series.**

**Please please please review to this chapter! And another big shoutout to Toxic-Mai-Panda :) **


	21. 10:08

_ Thank you for all the reviews. I would really appreciate it if I could get at least 450 reviews by the end of this chapter, so please take a second to let me know what you like/dislike. It would also help with writing the future chapters. _

_Only three chapters left now. . . _

_Please note that at 10:08, the tense changes to present. From now on, Rena will be telling her story as it happens, not as it __**happened**__._

_And please. Please. Please. Review. _

_X,_

_Mistro_

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

My eyes were searching for something, but they did not know what. As the carriage continued to wheel up the steep edges of the Alps, my fixation with the forest floor beneath us grew. Sherlock knew I was keeping my eyes at a distance in order to avoid him. Hurt and confusion were the only things to linger inside of my pupils, and each time he glanced at me, I felt more exposed than the last.

"At least the weather is promising," John snickered as the horses struggled to make their way over an ice patch. "Being on the side of a cliff with nothing but ice on our sides should make any man feel like a hero."

Simza smirked, her spirits suddenly up. Her brother would be waiting for her… although most likely not looking the same as in her memories. "The heat of bodies dancing together at the ball should be enough to melt the ice away." Her voice was soothing, almost romantic. "Women in hundreds of layers and men secretly dabbing their brows beside the bar." I tried to mimic her smile, but my face could not move. I was as silent and chilled as a gargoyle.

Something drew my attention from the opposite side of the carriage. Sherlock's fingers were pressed against the side of the wall in order to hide from our companions' line of vision. They snapped quietly to get my attention. When I rolled my emerald eyes towards his face, I was surprised to see that he was gazing directly outside. _What is he trying to express? _His fingers pointed slowly towards his coat. His eyes then met mine in a flash.

There was something in my pocket. I had not felt any intrusion since our last meeting, but with Sherlock Holmes, you had to presume sneakery in all aspects of life. With poised confidence, I slid my ringed fingers into the furry pockets of my black coat. They pricked against the edge folded paper, warm and wrinkled to the touch. With as much stealth as I had acquired over our past adventures, I slid the note out and glanced at the writing atop.

_Read when you return to Mycroft's. _

"What's that you're holding, Rena?" John's natural curiosity slinked off his lips and put a jump into my bodice. I quickly tucked the sheet back in its original position, fearful of what the contents might say.

"Just a note of purchase left over from when Mycroft bought the coat, I suppose." My voice shook as much as the carriage wheels, but we were heading over rocky paths and the hesitancy was well hid. "I wonder… are we almost-"

"Here, Mister Holmes." The voice of the driver conveniently answered my question before the thought passed my mouth. With a click, the door opened smoothly, leading us out into our heaven of candle-lit paths and snowy trees spreading across miles.

My eyes darted over the mountaintops, amazed by their splendor and glory. They were the Gods of nature, their armor being their rocks and their smiles extending across the base of the earth. The snow continued to gently fall atop of them like a blanket draping over their shoulders in the night. My breath caught inside of me. It was the most beautiful sight I had seen in many years. The nighttime comforted me as the deep, green trees echoed of a snowed-in Christmas Eve many years ago. I could almost taste the peppermint on my tongue and the sweet smell of cinnamon erupting from our countryside kitchen.

"Renadale."

Sherlock waited for me on the ground, his hand outstretched and firm. I had not realized that I was the only one left in the carriage. Though the night was chilled, I could feel the heat rushing onto my cheeks. "Thank you," I mumbled and politely took his hand. Once on the ground, Sherlock kept me firmly in place.

"Please read the letter when you return to Mycroft's." Something dark passed his eyes as he spoke.

"What is so important that you cannot tell me yourself when we _all_ return?"

Sherlock did not answer right away. His hands dug into his pockets, feeling around for something. My eyes could not make out what it was before his voice distracted me. "There are instructions in there that must be followed. I need your word that you will see them through."

I could feel my entire body tense. Another errand for Mister Holmes. It was like we were returning to the days of my housecleaning work. My tongue felt as sharp as a guillotine. I wanted to lash out and accuse him of crushing my heart, but his chocolate eyes looked frightened. Perhaps more than I was. I did not know the cause. "I promise." It was all I could manage to say.

Sherlock nodded his head gently as a token of his appreciation. His hands were not as firm when he shut the carriage door; I saw them shake beneath the tips of his sleeves. His back turned on me as it had many times that evening and he headed for the final confrontation.

"Why did you leave?" _Oh, Renadale. You foolish girl. _"Why… Why did you leave me?" I heard my voice crack under the heavy weight of my heart. Sherlock turned the moment I began to speak, his face twisted with sorrow and regret. No touch he offered me was comforting, no look he gave me was enough to mend my confusion. "I know what we did was wrong," my voice became softer as couples making their way inside began to catch our eye. "We are not sinners, you and I. And yet you left as if disgusted, as if horrified of what you had seen."

"Surely you do not think that was the case." His voice was bewildered, almost angry if I detected it correctly. "How could anything about you disgust me?" I knew he was speaking genuinely, but it did not answer my questions.

"Then why did you leave me?"

Sherlock's mouth opened, prepared with an excuse. Perhaps it was going to be elaborate. Perhaps he would make up a lie. Instead he could not find the words. His attitude had completely shifted into a man that I hardly recognized. "I cannot explain to you at this moment, but Renadale you will know why I left in time." His words softened, but pain still lingered in the corner of his eyes, the frown of his mouth and the wrinkles on his forehead. Each feature was perfectly preserved in my mind to bring me warmth, but I was fearful the image was starting to crack under a chill. "My reasoning would not make sense to you at this moment, but I need you to understand…" His head cocked to the side as he let out a heavy sigh. "Saying 'no' to you is the most difficult experience I believe I have ever come across."

The accusations and hurt continued to fall out of me, like every insecurity was setting free from the cage of my mind. "What of Irene Adler? Does it relate to her?" I should have been frightened by how quickly his face dropped when I said The Woman's name. Her red presence danced around us. That sweet, American giggle kept ringing through my ears.

"No," he stuttered. "Irene is not…" His hesitancy once again should have startled me, but I thought nothing of it. "Irene is no longer in the picture."

Not knowing precisely what he meant, I disregarded the comment and took his word to be truthful. I could hear how stupid I sounded, but my heart was shattering along with each drop of snow that fell to the ground. "You do not know the pain I felt when you exited my room. The embarrassment, the hurt…"

"On the contrary," he whispered. "I think I know quite well. Perhaps more than you realize." His voice shook as his hands gripped the sides of my face. His skin was warm against mine, and not a single space lingered between his palms and my skin; we were a puzzle piece that fit together no matter how dented or bruised. "Renadale, there will come a time when you will not see me. There will be a day when you wake up and I am no longer beside you." Tears, those rare creatures that visited Sherlock Holmes's eyes perhaps once every ten years, began to fall like steady raindrops. "Do not think for a second that I have not dreamt of you, fought for you, or loved you with all that my twisted soul could muster up. You have given me a life, Rena. You have loved me and for that, I am…" He stopped speaking and let his head fall. I stared, dumbfounded, at the top of his head. Why was he speaking of old age? When he said I would wake up without him, we would surely be elderly and tired. Of course I did not fear that day. _Why is he acting so strange? _"I am grateful."

"Sherlock-" I reached out for him, but he stopped my words with a gentle press of his lips to my hand. My train of thought left the station and I was left with an empty platform.

"Do not show your affections for me this evening or you will be targeted. All of our lives are in danger now. We only have this one chance." His lips swiftly pressed themselves to my cheek. Then he wiped his tears, straightened his tie, and entered the room as if nothing had occurred.

Little did I know that it was the last time Sherlock Holmes would kiss me.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

_ "Mother… father… Will I ever attend a real ball?"_

As my skirt brushed against the checkered marbled floor, I knew I was entirely out of my comfort zone. A grand staircase, like ones drawn inside of my fairytale books, stood before my eyes and it frightened me to know that I was going to walk up it. People would be watching me.

_"Well, Renadale. There are always dances, if not balls."_

I stood closely behind Watson as an elderly gentleman etched our faces in his mind. He began to flip through a well-pressed book, his finger landing gracefully upon a black and white photograph. His hands were gloved in white fabric. I wanted to soak it all in, because somehow I knew that I would never attend such an elegant ball again. "Aha, Doctor Watson. Welcome."

_"But father, I would like to attend a gala ball… wear a nice dress and a headpiece."_

If I was going to look the part, I had to play the part. My chin jutted out and I playfully gave the gentleman a wink. He looked startled, but playing the part of a primadonna was more fun that originally imagined. "Miss Renadale Adkins," I said smoothly. "I'm sure you'll find me somewhere in that book."

_"That all depends on your relations, dear. Marry well and you will have as many dresses as you'd like. And diamonds to wear atop of them."_

The old man scoffed in surprised, his fingers flipping rapidly through the book. My nerves were boiling up towards my throat. What if he didn't have a photo of me? How would Mycroft even attain such a thing? And then I remembered: Sherlock had planned most of this out. Perhaps he had slipped him a photograph on the eve of John's stag party. My fears were not relevant. Two moments later, the man extended his arm towards the top of the staircase. "Of course, Miss Adkins. Welcome to Switzerland."

_"Judith, darling… Perhaps we shouldn't be putting such grand notions into the girl's head." _

Each step that I took up the staircase allowed for the orchestral tune to grow louder in my ears. Johann Strauss. "Wiener Blut". The song was familiar from my childhood, as Strauss was a favorite of my father's. The song was a perfect opportunity for a waltz, but as I listened to the tune of the violas, deeper and less entrancing than the main melody, my mood shifted into one of hesitation. Even Strauss could not sooth me. Tonight was going to be dangerous. And nobody dancing in his or her pastel silks could see it coming.

_"She's a child, my husband. Who knows where her path will lead?"_

My feet were taking me on a path towards the edge of the ballrooms. I received a few raised brows from young, handsome men in army ensembles. Knowing full well that I had to keep my character, I flicked my fan open to spread its lace design, batting it to toy with their emotions. This only seemed to intrigue them more, and it was not my intention to have one of them suddenly make their way over to me.

_"Perhaps she will be an author or an inventor… A grand lady doesn't seem to fit our darling Renadale, does it?"_

"Care to dance, my lady?" The man, or 'boy' rather, extended his hand as if I did not have the option to refuse him. Something about his manner reminded me briefly of Thomas. His eyes were as blue as the woman's sapphire dress beside me and his hair as blonde as a newborn child. With a firm nod and a keen desire to keep my character going, I reached for his hand and pulled him out onto the dance floor.

_"No, papa, I would love to be an inventor, but mother is right. A lady would not be so horrible." _

Why had I done that? The boy's eyes were digging into my soul and I found that I did not have the strength to look back at him. "You are a shy English girl, is that it? Something about you told me that you were not entirely easy to win over." He questioned as we waltzed our way easily into the circle. I couldn't help but remember Sherlock teaching me on the deck of the ship. The feel of his arms. The heat of his body. The smooth turns of his feet.

The thought was only a memory.

"I am English." I tried to make my voice as posh as possible, hoping to fool the boy. I could not pick up on his accent… It seemed German or perhaps Austrian. "But your notion of me being shy is entirely wrong."

_"Renadale, you will always be a lady. You are as beautiful and intelligent as they come. I know that whatever path you choose, you will catch everyone's eye." _

The boy caught my eye once more, a smirk lingering on his smooth lips. He was incredibly handsome, but something about him was too fair. The dark and mysterious were missing. He was not… Holmes. "Perhaps I will have to linger beside you this evening and find out for myself which traits you possess."

"Or perhaps she will stay with her Uncle." Someone's firm hand grabbed my arm and tugged my away from my partner. The boy looked appalled and slightly embarrassed. Mycroft's face was not so forgiving. "Sorry dear chap, but I'm afraid she's rather important in the lines of our business and will need to focus on the relations she came here to build. Unfortunately, you are not one of them."

The boy bowed quickly, realizing that Mycroft had a higher position at that party than himself. With another hesitant glance towards me, he slinked back off to the sidelines, planting himself perfectly beside an even younger girl in a pink dress. He was quick to forget about me, and with my birthday only a day or two before, I suddenly began to feel old.

"Making new friends, Rena?" Watson's tone was mocking. I didn't bother to respond with words or gestures. Instead, I glanced to Sherlock in order to gather his opinion on the matter. He was not paying attention. His eyes were fixated across the room on a handsome young man in a white suit and an older one with military regalia upon his chest.

"Now that we're _all_ present…" Mycroft's eyes darted to my flushed face. "I can tell you that the targets are the German chancellor and his ambassador." He gestured towards the two men Sherlock had been eyeing only moments before. "The German-French Prime minister and his man… And the other nations are really working out which side to take should hostilities erupt." I knew this was going to be long and I waved a server over to us. Taking two glasses of win, I bid him farewell and drank them both by the end of Mycroft's speech. No one tried to stop me. "There is Prince Michael, a cousin of the Czar and the Russian ambassador… The Archduke Karl Ludwig and the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador… The Romanian prime minister and_ his_ ambassador… And of course, our Prime Minister and the British Ambassador!"

"He'll choose a moment when all the dignitaries are assembled, preferably standing still. Is there to be an official photograph?" Sherlock's words were quick as his eyes darted swiftly around the room. I watched him linger for a moment longer on the French pair, but why exactly, I could not say.

"Indeed! Yes!" Mycroft pulled out his perfectly polished pocket watch. "In thirty eight minutes."

Sherlock's trimmed brow rose swiftly with the curl of his lip. "In which case, we might as well dance." His hand fell open towards Simza, who looked startled by the gesture. A knife twisted somewhere in my stomach, but I mentally pulled it out and forced myself to stand a bit straighter. She eyed me with nerves, but I gave her a gentle smile, telling her it was all right. To be fair, I had just been waltzing about with a boy five years younger than me with the eyes of Apollo. Sherlock had every right to be a tad bit antagonistic with me.

Or perhaps he was hiding his affections, similarly as to how he instructed me. He was doing a much better job at it than I.

I couldn't hear much of what they were speaking of as they began to waltz, but apparent disappointment must have been etched on my face as Watson's hand entered my line of vision. "I'm no Holmes when it comes to dance or charm, but if you're willing…"

_Watson! The poor man. I'd been so selfish, I hadn't even thought of him. _"Of course, my dear friend!" I grasped his hand quickly in mine, pulling him out onto the dance floor. The alcohol was making my head spin, but Watson kept me firmly in place. The couples were a bit startled as we suddenly pushed our way in, but in seconds we knew the waltz like the back of our hands. "Who taught you to dance?" I snickered, slinking myself closer to him.

Watson smirked. "I loathe myself to admit it, but it was Holmes."

"Sincerely?" I laughed. "He taught me as well! On the deck of a ship."

"He taught me in the closet of a Russian millionaire's mansion!" I scrunched my brows together in curiosity. "Don't question it…" Both of us turned to smile at the man who had given us our abilities, but his eyes were on the heated hunt for … someone.

"Is he looking for Moriarty?" I whispered, making sure no one heard the Professor's name.

"On the contrary. I believe he's looking for Rene."

Watson pulled me aside to take a quick second to breathe. It was safe to say that we were both exhausted after the military base attack, the train ride, and the meeting at Mycroft's. We hadn't gotten the chance to rest much and the food that I had eaten before coming to the peace summit was only tumbling my mind back into sleep. However, the sudden appearance of Sherlock at my side snapped my attention back into place. His hand once more flipped out for a dance, but not towards me. John did not look entirely happy, but on business accounts he replied, "I thought you'd never ask."

"Wait here," Sherlock whispered to me. "And don't rush off with any blondes."

Before I had the chance to respond, the men were onto the floor and gathering stares from the entire ballroom. I couldn't help but chuckle behind my fan, the laughs suddenly becoming hysterical as a woman behind me whispered, "Oh my… I hear it is the trend these days… Men being… _intimate_ with other men…"

For anyone that did not know them, the closeness of their whispers may have looked like a heated love affair. But I knew better. I watched their eyesight. I kept the line of their visions in tune with mine. First, they eyed a young German with a cut on his cheek. It was the work of Hofmannsthal, if I remembered correctly. He repaired skin by cutting at it, pulling it and twisting it to look like another man's. An insane idea, but the boy looked incredibly well aside from the red mark on his cheek.

What did this mean? Rene would be in disguise. If Moriarty had connections with Hofmannsthal, then it was likely Rene would not look the same as he did. So, which man was he? He could have been standing behind me for all I knew. I kept myself ready, my fingers prepared to turn into a fist should any incidents break loose. The wine was making me a bit too confident.

"One of the ambassadors." Watson's voice suddenly rang into my ear as the men stopped dancing in front of me. I knew what John mean; Rene had been transformed to become an ambassador. The dangers of his actions were going to be high. The risks of stopping him would be even higher.

"That narrows down the possibility of one to six," Holmes continued. I silently trailed behind them as he continued to explain. He turned his body at an angle, allowing for me to hear without looking like I was included in the conversation. "You and Sim shall find her brother."

"Holmes-" Watson interjected. I knew what John was getting at. Sherlock was going to leave us. He was going to find Moriarty and put an end to his nonsense. I knew he told me to hide my affections, but I was sure the love and fear for him sparkled in my eyes.

Sherlock merely responded, "You know my methods."

John paused. "And I know where you'll be."

"No possible solution could be congenial to me than this."

_Solution? _I couldn't help but think. _What sort of solution? _

Sherlock continued on with a mocking tone. "By the way, who taught you how to dance?"

John flashed him an affectionate smile before looking out onto the dance floor. "You did."

"Well. I've done a fine job." Sherlock's tone darkened. I could feel myself staring at them, obviously allowing for the other members of the ball to see a connection between us, but somehow my attention was fixed. Sherlock's eyes were suddenly on mine. "I've done a fine job for both of you."

He began to head towards the back balcony. "Be careful," John instructed.

My arm reached out as he began to pass me, and I could feel my grip tighten around his skin. _Let Moriarty see. Let him know my affections. If Holmes is in danger, then I will follow. _"_Please _be careful," I whispered. I did not turn to face him, but I saw his head turn from the corner of my eye.

He watched me for a moment.

My hand fell from its grip.

Sherlock Holmes walked away from me.

My heart began to swell with the music.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

_10:00_

"Ladies and gentleman! Please gather for the portrait!"

It was time. Hell was going to break lose and I didn't have an escape from it. John, Simza and I were alone. Moriarty had followed Sherlock's path onto the balcony shortly after he had abandoned us. Who knew what discussions were going on behind those yellow, wooden doors? Something about the way he and John looked at each other made me feel as if they held a secret. A secret I would not like.

_10:02_

"Keep yourself calm, Rena," John ordered. He was a military man and his tone was harsh and convincing enough for me to follow his orders. "Shall we go to work?"

The three of us were going to look carefully for Rene. He would look different, but scars behind his ear were going to be a giveaway. John had also mentioned that he might seem nervous. These all seemed plausible. They all seemed like things Sherlock would pick up on. I was not going to let him down, despite all the troubles we had been through.

"Right. The surgery will have left scars. Only four of them have the hairline to hide them." John spoke softly, elegantly and we tried our best not to stare at the ambassadors.

I swallowed another glass of white wine.

_10:05_

Simza's voice seemed nervous. She had been so strong when I first met her, but when it came to family, she would do anything to protect her brother. "They're all my brother's height, right build… but their eyes. Their eyes are wrong. Rene has blue eyes."

"He could be wearing-"

"Glass lenses," John finished my sentence.

"To change the color," I implied.

"In which case, his eyes would be hurting." A few of them began to rub their eyes. Or was it my mind playing horrible tricks on me?

Simza perked up as once of the ambassadors held a cigar in his right hand. "Rene is left handed."

_10:06_

Simza could not keep her eyes off one of the young men. He had all the features she described. He seemed a bit quiet, perhaps nervous. We all dropped our voices until nearly inaudible. The bones in my knees felt like they were disintegrating. "I think it might be him," Simza mumbled.

"You think?" John did not sound thrilled about those two words. "You have to be sure."

"Rene's life and the lives of so many others depend on it," I said. John and Simza both shot me a glare. "I'm sorry. That probably doesn't help."

_10:07_

John's voice began to shake as the clock's thin, black arm snapped further clockwise. "If I tackle the wrong man to the ground, I could start a war."

"I don't know…" Simza said with ache.

Having wonderful ideas is a rare thing for me, and I seize the opportunity to make them known when they appear. "Frighten him." The other two looked shocked by my sudden interjection, but I knew my plan was a good one. "Make a loud noise. He will be so focused on playing his part that a natural reaction such as a jump will not be possible. He will struggle. We will have our man. Simza will be reunited and as Sherlock put so elegantly… we will stop the collapse of Western civilization."

"Renadale…" John muttered with a smile. "That's genius."

I shrugged. "I've learned from the best."

_10:08_

John walks behind a server. His hand flicks out and smashes the silver tray to the ground. The glass breaks. The silver clatters. The server jumps away. Gasps are set free like fish cut loose from a net. Everyone turns his or her heads to the accident. Simza and I face the ambassadors.

Almost all turn in the same direction.

One of them does not move.

Simza's eyes narrow. She recognizes something.

The man begins to walk away without facing the scene.

John nods towards us.

I face the ambassador, who suddenly has a gun. But Simza stops him before I manage to. In Romani, she says something. I assume it means 'brother'. She then continues. The man says nothing. A moment of hope crosses his eyes but it crumbles like the recently crushed glass.

He shouts something at the top of his lungs and shoves his sister away.

"Simza!" A gunshot covers my shout.

Watson sprints across the room to tackle him.

I hold Simza in my arms and she shakes, and shakes and shakes.

All hell breaks loose. Mycroft is shouting something about protecting prime ministers, which frightens me to no end. People begin to flood out of the doors, squishing one another and screaming at the top of their lungs.

Guards come and take the gun from Rene's fingers, dragging him back towards the entrance. "What will the do with him?" Simza shrieks. Before she has an answer, her brother begins to speak in my own tongue.

"Germany will pay!" The thick, French accent calls out to the room. "Mark my words! Germany will pay!"

I can only imagine Holmes smiling from the balcony.

_10:09_

After more threats and shrieks, Rene is gone from the room. Simza is curled into John's arms. He keeps her head in his chest to hide the sight. At least she has the comfort of knowing that he is alive, despite wearing a different face and following the orders of James Moriarty.

For an unknown reason, I begin to head in the direction Rene is. He is not the man Simza knows. Surely he can be forgiven? I do not like the way the guards are carrying him off. If he was not so loyal to his cause, he may be redeemed. He may have the chance to become a good man again.

And then I think. If he is so loyal, will he continue to live on after losing such an important fight? It does not seem like Moriarty to let him live.

"Simza," I say fearfully, turning to face her. She catches my eye in a second. She understands. John quickly mimics her expression and says those three dreaded words.

"No loose ends."

_10:10_

John leaves the room and I can see the tears boiling in Simza's eyes. "I cannot go out!" She cries. Everyone is watching us, but we do not give him or her our attention.

"Simza, I know you are frightened, but you must tend to your brother!"

"I cannot see him! He has destroyed me! He has hurt me-"

"He has hurt others, but not you. He would never hurt you, Simza. Go to him."

It takes a while to convince her, but she soon runs out the door, screaming his name and crying through her pain and confusion. It doesn't take long, but I can hear Simza yelling at Watson. She is begging him to do something. I can imagine her brother struggling to catch his breath, dying in her arms. I do not need to be beside them to feel their pain.

Everyone gathers around the dying man. Simza begins to cry up towards the heavens. Her brother is dead. I can hear it in her foreign words. Pain is understandable in any language.

No loose ends? If Moriarty is out on the balcony, then surely he had his own player in this never-ending game of chess. My eyes search the nearly deserted ballroom. Proud banners from each country flap against the walls as open windows let the snowy breeze roll in.

And then I see him. That strawberry head. That smirk. Those eyes fixated on my own.

Sebastian Moran.

_10:11_

Sebastian sends me a wink and leaves. It seems as if he has won. I do not move for sixty seconds.

_10:12_

John rushes into the room. I am alone. He grips my arms and stares into my eyes. "Where is Holmes?" I shake my head, frozen. "_Rena! _Holmes is…"

The frustration is building up inside of him. Part of me recognizes the pain, but I do not understand it. John is hardly ever in tears. Why all of a sudden? "Doctor?" I mutter.

"Rena," John chokes. I did not think it was possible for my heart to break any further, but he proves me wrong with his pool of tears. And then he says something that breaks my entire soul.

"Sherlock is going to die."

I look at the clock. It is 10:13. I am running. I am sprinting. I am weeping because I cannot believe what he is saying. John rushes in front of me, hoping to change the game. The whole world is turning more slowly than I can manage. I trip a few times in my heels, but I continue on.

_You bastard._

I know I should not be cursing Sherlock Holmes, but he has worn my soul on his sleeve from the first day I met him. He has used it for his love, his adventures, his confusions, his desires, and now he is using it for his death. I could kill him.

But, apparently I will not need to.

John opens the yellow doors. I shove past him and onto the balcony. My eyes deceive me.

Sherlock Holmes has Moriarty wrapped in his arms, almost in a chokehold. Moriarty's back is towards us. I will never look on his face again. Sherlock's eyes stares long enough for me to read them.

_I love you._

His eyes shut. With a firm kick, he takes both his and James's body backwards over the edge. I can feel myself screaming at the top of my lungs. I do not know what I am saying or how yelling will help me. I cannot hear my voice but I can feel the tears drowning my words. I am choking. I cannot breathe.

Sherlock is gone.

My body lunges forward. I will go down with him. He is my ship and I will go down with him. He keeps me afloat. He is my ship and I will go down with him. He is my soul and I will drown in my own tears without him. He is my ship. John holds me back. I am broken. I am broken.

I am broken.


	22. Equal Souls

**Enjoy. Please understand that this is Sherlock's letter, and in between lines, there are some flashbacks that occurred in each of my four other stories (though not written except for the last one which includes some lines from the Stag Party) ! (: **

**Please review and thanks again for the amazing comments! **

**xxx,**

**Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

_Dear Renadale,_

_You must allow me to explain my actions. My feelings towards you are continental, expressed by escaping waters that hold no borders or barriers. _

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"Renadale?" Holmes glanced over his shoulder to find the mysterious woman. She had startled him upon first appearance, not necessarily because he hadn't hired a maid; that was Watson's doing. What struck him were her poise, her manner, and her unparalleled stature. She kept her body stiff as a board with her eyes focusing on everything but the speaker. Her nods were quick and precise and her tongue was short to speak her opinion. He had been enjoying seeing her around the flat, though he could not figure out why and finding her suddenly absent was strangely upsetting. "Where did that maid run off to?"

John lifted his head up from the newspaper he was reading. His polished shoes were kicked up atop of his wooden desk that should have had finished paperwork atop it instead. He had much to do that day, but he wasn't going to miss out on the new theatrical show appearing in his own flat: _Sherlock's Obsession with the New Maid._

"Where has that little devil run off to?" Sherlock began lifting up cushions on the sofa, even daring to look beneath its wooden legs for fear she might be hiding. John shook his head from the linear room and took a long drag of his pipe.

"Mister Holmes, I- Oh!" Renadale's sudden appearance on the threshold was welcomed with a crouched version of Sherlock's backside. As usual, she turned her head the opposite direction but this time out of embarrassment rather than timidity. "I… Just wanted to tell you that I received your package." Her arm outstretched towards him as he began to stand up. At the end of her fingertips was the brown parcel she had promised.

"Is that where you were?" He asked, flabbergasted.

The girl hesitantly allowed her eyes to settle upon him. She had only been there two days and already he had forgotten about her. "Yes, sir… As you had asked me to this morning?"

His untamed hair bounced as his head fell lazily to his shoulder. "I asked you to remove yourself from my flat?"

An audible snicker came from the other room. "Yes, sir." Renadale did not know what to say. Did he not want her to leave? Did she have other errands she had neglected? Her mother would shun her for a week if she got fired on the third day. Afraid of what he might do, she distracted him with the package by pushing it gently into his hands. "There you are, sir."

"No need for the 'sir's," he said with a mumble. His fingers began to peel back the brown paper and the curiosity couldn't help but dance around the emerald halos in her eyes. She hadn't even noticed that he stopped unwrapping and that his eyes were fixated on her. "You're awfully curious for a maid."

Renadale tensed up familiarly, Holmes finding it difficult not to chuckle. "My apologies, sir. I'll start on the dusting-"

"Don't. I don't enjoy people touching my things." His brow rose swiftly as the last bit of paper was peeled away. It floated to the ground like a dirt-stained butterfly. "In fact… I'd rather have you open this."

Renadale flinched back in response. "You just informed me not to touch your possessions, sir. I cannot help but feel as if you are mocking me." Her dark brows came together for a split second in her forehead, her true character coming out. It did not last long, but Sherlock was utterly drawn to her change of mood. Another reason he found her so noteworthy.

"How do you know this is mine?"

A beat. "Because it has your name, sir."

"What if it was a gift?" Renadale could feel her legs shaking under her heavy, blue skirt. She was certain he was all tease. "A gift for a friend."

"Then perhaps you should let your friend open it." Though often shy, Renadale did not allow anyone to mock her about something that was out of her knowledge. Especially men. She believed they had a way about themselves when it came to women: cocky, proud, belittling… she hated all of the traits. Thomas, her past love, had made sure of that. And although this man was her new boss she would rather be penniless than serve another man who treated her like a child.

"I _am_ letting her open it." Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at her sudden stubbornness. He only stretched his arm out further.

The sound of a chair scraping on wooden floor sounded from the other room. Watson had stood up in shock, peeking his head around the corner for a better line of vision. Renadale glanced at the Doctor nervously, but all he could give her was a shrug. He was clearly as baffled as her.

With a careful eye placed on her new boss, Renadale clicked open the lid of the wooden box. It felt heavy, which normally meant expensive. When Renadale looked down, she was shocked and yet slightly flattered that he had managed to pick up on her character in only a short amount of days. "They're… gears."

"You said you were an inventor." He shrugged as if it were nothing and yet the gleam and silver edges of the various sized tools proved that it was indeed something worth noting.

"Sir, why did you-?"

"I have a friend who works in the business. He's working on wind turbines, or something such as that…" Once again, he threw out a nonchalant shrug. "He had no use for them and I couldn't help but think that they would be better in your hands than in the rubbish." Renadale tried to thank him, but her words were lost in a flurry of revelation. By the time she had managed to execute a proper response, he had already left the room.

"Be thankful." The doctor's voice startled Renadale back into reality. "He doesn't do that. Not even when I specifically go and ask him to fetch me something as simple as milk." Almost playfully, Watson wagged his finger in her direction. There was nothing more he needed to say and he exited through the door shortly after his friend. The maid stood with her jaw clenched tight, feeling as if this were the closing scene of some terribly written play.

"Bloody hell," she whispered. The foul word stung her tongue, but no other two words had been so fitting.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

_And if you think otherwise, please recall the moments where my limited affections were displayed. It is rare for me to hold someone- physically or emotionally- to my soul. _

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Renadale's brown curls were similar to Irene's. Thick, heavy hair that men yearned to run their fingers through and women idolized. And yet on that blistery night, their thick hair didn't seem to keep the hairs on their neck down. "Irene," Renadale said as they swan through London's dark alleys. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Holmes is missing," she muttered furiously. "I haven't been able to think of any other options, so this is what we will have to work with."

Renadale knew how Irene felt. They both cared for Holmes, perhaps even loved him in whatever way he _could_ be loved. But this was Renadale's second case with Holmes and the poisoned bodies and sewers had begun eating away at her beautiful memories. She did not know the detective as well as the Adler woman did, and somehow following her and Watson to the sewers seemed unfitting as if she did not belong.

And as she considered walking away and leaving it to the experts, she recalled his gentle face and strangely soft eyes. This was a man who had seen murder countless times, torture and overall wickedness of humanity. He had been injured, accused, jailed and almost killed for the sake of equality. He was the most honest and generous man she had met. Few people saw him that way, but she glad to be one of them.

_Why would I give up on such a man? Even if I do not know him as well as the two beside me, I believe in him. Does he not deserve my respect? Does he not deserve my help?_

It did not take much convincing for Renadale to remain on the case. Sherlock Holmes was her hero. They were going to save him or die trying.

Renadale sincerely hoped it would be the former.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

_Tonight may be the night that I die. If you are reading this, I hope you shall be in the comfort of my brother's house, alone, and though unlikely, without any tears streaking your young and beautiful face. _

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Renadale was terrified of ordering a cocktail at the Paris Opera house. "Why can't you do it?" Her voice shook as the nightmare of speaking French entered her mind. "Your French is perfect. I don't even know how to say 'yes'!"

"Oui."

"What are you saying? I don't understand you!"

Sherlock grabbed her tightly by the arms, forcing their eyes to meet. "Renadale, listen to me." Her green eyes struggled to focus on his darker ones, but after a moment of nervous whimpering she finally succeeded. "She is going to ask you what you want. You can say, "Oui. Cointreau."

"How can I say that when I don't even know what it is?"

Sherlock's face twisted into a momentary smile before returning to its serious mask. "Just trust me, you'll like it." He tossed the girl a wink and a shove, forcing her on her way. Renadale managed to pronounce the alcohol perfectly, causing the detective to smile from across the room. As the waiter turned to fill her a glass, she glanced over her shoulder with a nervous shrug directed towards her companion.

_How did I do? _She asked with her glimmering eyes.

_Beautifully, _he replied.

The alcohol content in the drink was high, but he could see the nerves dancing about her skin. What she didn't know wouldn't kill her. It was their third case together, but somehow being in Paris with Renadale felt right. It made sense. She was as beautiful as the roses outside their hotel and the pastel palaces that littered the city. His stomach would churn when he would see her, even at the simplest of times when she was not trying to be lovely. Did she ever try? He wondered. She never battered her lashes like Irene. She never polished her shoes. Her makeup was minor, if existent. The girl was ravishing and fascinating rolled into one and as intoxicating as the drink she held in her pale hands.

He took a sip from his wine and allowed for the song-like name to drip from his mouth, quiet enough for his own ear's company. "Renadale Adkins."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

_I would have married you, Renadale. I would have loved you as much as my pathetic soul could. I still do as I write this letter. _

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

When Renadale entered the stage, Sherlock Holmes did not need to look up to see she was there. He could feel it. He could feel the room brighten. He could hear the other men gasping and inwardly longing for her touch against their drunken skin. He was fearful of looking at her, knowing that it would release his darkest desires and awake a hunger in him that he had only felt with her.

And yet, he could not stop himself. She was alluring. His eyes trailed up from the pub table and onto the elongated stage. And voila… there she was as pretty as a French painting. Her hair was wrapped tightly on her head, her outfit revealing but somehow perfectly right for the occasion. She did not make an entirely good performer, she was far too beautiful for that, but somehow her smiles and body took over the stage as if she had been there forever.

She gave a flick of her wrist, followed by a perfectly executed bow. Sherlock wished he had brought had brought his strongest tobacco to keep his hands steady. They were shaking uncontrollably at the mere sight of her. If she got any closer, he thought his affections for her would erupt. He had to act like he didn't care. Like she didn't affect him. He knew it would hurt her, but somehow it was hurting him to love her.

Love her. He hadn't spoken it. He hardly even let the thought cross his mind. And yet in the darkest and quietest moments of the night, he knew that he did. The pumping of his heart was solely for her. Well, he was certain the feeling of love made one queasy at the sight of another. He was certain it was love that made his body shake when she grew close to him.

But, now was not the time to confess. He stood up and quickly spun around after shooting her a momentary smile. His back was to her as she jumped off the stage and all it took was a tap on the shoulder for him to spin around. He tried his hardest to act surprised. "Renadale! You look…" _Damn, Holmes. Pull yourself together. _Finding the right words was harder than the Blackwood case.

"I honestly don't want to know." Her hand reached out to grab his sleeve, anger and confusion lacing her green irises. The softness of her skin was almost noticeable beneath his thick fabric, and he could feel himself spinning with intoxication at the sight and smell of her. "We should go upstairs and talk."

"You see, I don't think now is the best time for-"

"No, no. It is certainly the best time."

Sherlock groaned. He had been unfair to the girl, never giving her answers or explanations. She deserved some sort of storyline to keep her beside him. The last thing he wanted was for her to leave his partnership, as she had horribly discussed in their second case together. If giving her answers would keep her there, he would do it. Even if it put her in danger.

_Selfishness, _Holmes thought to himself. _That is what I possess when I see her. _He wanted her to himself, though he hardly admitted it to his own soul and even less to hers. When she had been interested in the Edward man, he thought he might give up on his cases. He thought he might give up on everything and live sheltered life with no sunshine and only the comfort of his horribly chaotic room.

But she had proved him wrong. The boy had died and a part of Renadale died with him. And since that moment, he swore to let her pave a path towards her own life. She was her own woman, though she barely believed it.

And that was why he was going to fight for her.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

_Forgive me, my darling. Forgive my ways. Forgive the words I said that hurt you and the words that I never said that also prolonged harm. You were always the strong one, which is why I let myself fall over the edge into admiration and the strongest passion for you._

_There were nights you did not hear of where I could not sleep. I feared my end was coming and, I confess, there were moments where I cursed myself for not letting you go as a maid in order to extract you from my life. This is not because I did not want you there, you were the center of my mind's painting, but because I feared my demise would come soon and that you and I would be far too deeply in love to let it cause ourselves no pain._

_It kills me, Renadale. It kills me to know that this was the only way. You saved me once before in the blockaded and miserable sewers beneath London, but now there is no way. As I write the final lines of this note, please heed my advice. _

_London is a cesspool. Leave. Do not return to the memories, the stench, and the inequality. Leave and start new. You have a gift with your mind and those in London will not appreciate it. London is my second love, but she is twisted like my own prison-like mind. Someone as beautiful as you deserves a breathtaking lifestyle._

_I must go now. My soul feels dormant without you already. Your bodice and soul clung to mine and I felt ill knowing that I might not have you as long as I had hoped. Do not cry. Do not forget that I love you. Do not stay in London. I am asking this of you. _

_Another game will be played. _

_~S_

My fingers drop the letter from my hand. I am glad that I'm sitting on the chair at Mycroft's desk to help steady me, though I can hardly read the scribbled 'S' through my tears.

My heart is the sorest part of my body. Though my shoulders and knees ache from wracked sobs, my heart continues to tighten. I fear it might burst if I continue to cry, but I cannot stop. His words echo through my mind like a broken machine.

_I would have married you._

_I would have married you._

_I would have married you._

I'm not sure of when John enters the room, but the sound of his worn-out soles ring familiar in my head and before I can meet his face, I feel his arms wrap themselves around my bodice. He is warm and soft and comforting like a father, or better yet, a best friend. I can feel the wetness on his cheeks as he pressed his face against mine. His lips move as if he is trying to say something, but no words come out.

My knees have finally given up. I feel myself crumple to the floor and further into John's arms. We are both crying, not understanding the events that have happened, pleased that Moriarty is gone and heartbroken that Sherlock would betray us.

"We could have helped him," I want to say. "We could have saved him." But no words come out.

John and I continue to hold one another as we sit, our tears becoming quieter until both of our souls order us to dream.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

**480? Please?**

**One of my readers, Emma0707, said this quote reminds her of Sherlock and Rena.**

**I couldn't agree more.**

**"We're all a little weird, and life's a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." -Dr. Suess**

**xxx**


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